0 


r 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 
MRS. 

ERIC   SCHMIDT 


i% 


r:^^^ 


POEMS 


OF 


SAMUEL    ROGERS 


A  MEMOIR. 


NEW  YORK: 

LEAVITT   &   ALLEN    BROS., 

Ko.    S    HOWARD    STREET. 


CONTENTS. 


■  emom  of  samuel  hogers 
(talt : 

PabtI.        I.  The  Lake  of  Geneva 

II.  TKe  Gre.it  St.  Bernard 
fil.  The  Descent    . 
IV".  Jorasse 

V.  Marsuerite  de  Tours 

VI.  The^Alps     . 
Til.  Como 
VIU.  Bergamo      . 

IX.  Italy 

X.  Coil' alto     . 
XI.  Venice     . 

X!l.  Lui-i    .... 

XIII.  St.  Mark's  Place     . 

XIV.  The  Gondola 
XV.  The  Brides  of  Venice 

XVI.  Foscari 
XVII.  Arqua 
XVIII.  Giiievra 
XIX.  Bologna    . 
XX.  Florence     . 
XXr   Don  Garzia 
XXII.  The  Campagna  of  Florence 
PaetII.        I.  ThePilsrim       . 
II.  An  Interview 

III.  Rome 

IV.  A  Funeral 

V.  National  Prejudices  . 
VI.  The  Campatrna  of  Rome 
Vil.  The  Roman'Pontiffs 
\1H.  Caius  Cestius 
IX.  The  Nun    . 
X.  Tlie  Fire-fly  . 

XI.  Foreisn  Travel 
Xll   The  fountain 


Page 


conte:v7s. 


XITI.  RandiUi    . 
ilV.  An  Adveiiuire 

XV.  Naples 

XVI.  TheBagofG(ild 
XVII.  A  Character 

iVllI.  Soneiuo 
XIX.  Pssium     . 
XX.  i\lomo  Cassino 
XX!.  The  Harper 
XXII.  The  Felucca      . 

XXIII.  Genoa    . 

XXIV.  A  Farewell 
Noies  and  lUuslralions  to  "  llrvly' 


HUMAN  LIFS 

AH  EPISTLE   TO  A  FRIEND 

JACaUELI.NE      . 


KISCLI-LANEOl'S  POE.MS  : 

The  Sailor       .... 

Wviilen  at  Midnight,  178G 

To  Two  Sisters 

To  an  Old  Oak   .        . 

From  Kuripedea 

To  a  Voice  that  iiad  been  Lost   . 

On  a  Tear 

On Asleep      . 

The  Boy  of  Egremond 
A  Character     .... 
To  a  Friend  on  his  ]\Iarria£re 
A  Wish    .       .       .       .  '    . 

To 

Caplivily         .... 

A  Farewell 

To  the  Fragment  of  a  Statue  of  Hercules 

Italian  Song 

From  a  Greek  Epigram 

Wriiven  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland, 

ToihRBuupitly  "  . 

Inscripli.in  for  a  Temple   . 

Written  in  Westminster  A iibey     . 

To 

The  Alps  by  Pay-break 

An  Inscription    .        .       ,      ,. 

The  Pleasures  of  Memory    *    . 


Jcc. 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


There  seems  to  l>e  something  so  repugnant 
to  the  pursuits  of  Ulerature  in  habits  of  trade 
end  commerce,  that  the  instances  have  been 
very  rare  in  which  they  have  been  combined  in 
one  individual.  The  historian  of  the  Medici, 
and  RoGEKS  the  Poet,  are  ahnost  solitary  in- 
stances of  hterary  taste  and  talent  being  united 
harmoniously  with  traffic.  Samuel  Rogers  is  a 
banker  in  London,  and  has  been  for  many  years 
at  the  head  of  a  most  respectable  firm.  His 
father  followed  the  same  business  before  him, 
and  amassed  considerable  wealth,  both  which 
became  the  heritage  of  the  Poet,  who  was  bom 
about  the  year  1762,  in  London;  but  little  cr 
nothing  is  known  of  the  way  in  which  he  passed 
his  early  years.  His  education  was  liberal,  no 
cost  having  been  spared  to  render  him  an  ac- 
complished scholar.  That  he  improved  by 
thought  and  reflection  upon  the  lessons  of  his 
youth,  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  and,  it  is  to  be 
presumed,  he  lost  no  opportunity  of  reaping 
profit  from  the  extraordinary  advantages  which 
ins  station  obtained  for  him.  He  always  kept 
(he  best  society,  both  as  respected  rank  and 
talent,  the  circlf;  of  v,-hichin  the  metropolis  a'' 


b  MEMOiK  OF  sami;el  rogeks. 

England  in  his  younger  days  was  more  tlian 
commonly  brilliant.  His  political  ideas  are 
what  are  styled  liberal,  and  no  one  has  ever 
been  able  to  reproach  him  with  the  abandon- 
ment of  a  single  principle  with  which  he  ori- 
ginally set  out  in  life.  Over  most  of  his  early 
friends  and  companions  the  grave  has  now 
closed,  and  they  included  among  them  many 
great  names. 

With  a  strong  attachment  for  the  Muses,  after 
the  excellent  education  Rogers  received,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  he  ventured  before  the  pub- 
lic. His  first  work  was  an  "  Ode  to  Supersti- 
tion, and  other  Poems,"  which  appeared  in 
17S6.  This  was  followed  by  a  second  publica- 
tion, "The  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  when  he 
had  passed  the  greenness  of  youth,  having  at- 
tained his  thirtieth  year.  In  1792  this  poem 
was  received  by  the  public  with  universal  ap- 
plause. The  subject  was  happily  chosen,  com- 
ing home  to  the  business  and  bosom  of  all ;  it 
was  executed  with  great  care,  and  various  pas- 
sages display  uncommon  felicity.  As  a  whole, 
perhaps  its  chief  defect  is  that  it  wants  vigour,  but 
the  deficiency  in  this  quaUty  is  made  up  in  cor- 
rectness and  harmony.  Rogers  is  one  of  the  most 
scrupulous  of  the  sons  of  the  lyre  in  his  metre, 
and  he  too  often  sacrifices  that  harshness  which 
Bets  olT  the  smoother  passages  of  a  writer's 
works,  and  prevents  sameness  and  monotony, 
to  mere  cold  purity  of  style.  Perhaps  no  poem 
of  f  qua.!  size  ei  e:  cost  its  author  so  many  boar;! 


ME:.I0IR   of   SAMUEL   KOGEUS.  7 

to  produce.  Not  satisfied  with  his  own  coirec- 
tions,  he  repeatedly  consulted  the  taste  of  some 
of  his  friends  ;  one  of  the  most  devoted  of  whom, 
Richard  Sharpe,  then  a  wholesale  hatter,  and 
since  Member  of  Parliament,*  has  said  that, 
before  the  pubhcation  of  this  poem,  and  while 
preparing  the  successive  editions  for  press,  they 
had  read  it  together  several  hundred  times, 
at  homo  as  well  as  on  the  Continent,  and  in 
every  temper  of  mind  that  vaiied  company  and 
varied  scenery  could  produce. 

In  the  yeir  1798,  Rogers  published  "An 
Epistle  to  a  Friend,  with  other  Poems,"  and  in 
1812  "The  Voyage  of  Columbus."  Two 
years  afterwards,  in  conjunction  with  Lord 
Byron,  or  rather  printed  in  the  same  volume 
with  Byron's  Lara,  appeared  his  tale  of  "  Jac- 
quehne;"  a  poem  which  displays  a  strange 
contrast  to  the  fire  and  energy  of  the  author  of 
Manfred.  Sweet  and  pleasing  rather  than  strik- 
ing, "  Jacqueline,"  though  well  received,  con- 
tributed little  to  increase  its  author's  reputation. 
"  Human  Life,"  nextlothe"Pleasures  of  Memo- 
ry," is  the  most  finished  production  of  Rogers. 
The  subject  was  i  good  one,  for  it  was  drawn 

*  This  gentleman  has  carried  the  art  of  brilliant  and 
Inleresiing  conversation  to  an  uaprecedenied  degree  of 
perfection,  having  in  fact  reduced  it  to  a  matter  of  inera 
business,  aa  systematic  as  Book-Keeping.  He  ke^ps  an 
index  to  his  multitudinous  commonplace  books:  and  haa 
a  debtor  and  creditor  account  with  his  ditfereni  circles  of 
the  jokes  let  off  or  the  set  speeches  made. 


8  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

fiom  universal  nature,  and  connected  with  all 
Jhose  rich  associations  which  increase  m  attrac- 
tion as  we  journey  onwards  in  the  path  of  hfe. 
It  is  an  epitome  of  man  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave,  and  is  executed  throughout  with  the  poet's 
wonted  care. 

The  friendship  of  Rogers  with  Sheridan  and 
with  Byron  is  well  known.  When  the  great 
wit,  dramatist,  and  orator,  was  near  the  close 
of  his  career,  neglected  by  those  who  were  fore- 
most in  the  circle  of  friends  when  he  enjoyed 
health  and  prosperity,  the  individual  who  re- 
lievied  the  wants  of  the  dying  man  was  Rogers ; 
whose  opulence  of  purse  enabled  him  to  do  that 
act  of  benevolence  .to  his  friend,  which  must 
ever  be  one  of  his  most  gratifying  reminiscences. 
It  is  seldom  poets  are  so  well  enabled  to  meet 
the  aspirations  of  their  hearts  towards  others. 
A  dispute,  on  the  appearance  of  Moore's  "  Life 
of  Sheridan,"  was  very  warmly  kept  up  con- 
nected with  this  circumstance.  It  was  said  that 
a  friend  of  Sheridan,  of  no  less  rank  than  a 
former  King  of  England  himself,  had  been 
among  those  who,  in  his  last  moments,  were  re- 
gardless of  the  pecuniary  necessities  of  the  dy- 
ing man  ;  that  at  last,  when  no  longer  necessary, 
a  sum  of  money  was  sent  by  the  royal  order, 
which  Sheridan  returned,  saying  that  it  came 
too  late,  a  friend  having  furnished  him  with  all 
he  should  require  while  life  remained.  Loyalty 
never  lacks  defenders,  or  perhaps  the  Prince  of 
Wales  was  not  to  blame,  as  tales  of  distress  are 


MEMOIR   OF  SA.MUEI    ROGERS.  9 

always  slow  in  reaching  the  t;ars  of  indiviauals 
in  august  stations.  However  the  matter  might 
have  been,  the  affair  was  warmly  disputed  ia 
respect  to  the  implied  royal  neglect,  and  re- 
mains still  in  as  much  uncertainty  as  ever  ;  but 
Rogers  gloriously  carried  off  the  palm  of  friend- 
ship and  feeling  on  the  occasion,  let  the  truth 
lie  which  side  it  may,  in  respect  of  the  tender 
from  a  higher  quarter.  Byron  and  Rogers  were 
on  terms  of  great  intimacy,  both  in  England 
and  during  the  poet's  residence  in  Italy.  In 
that  medley  of  truth  and  falsehood,  the  "  Recol- 
lections of  Byron"  by  Medwin,  the  noble  poet 
is  described  as  alluding  to  a  singular  talent  for 
epigram,  which  Rogers  is  made  to  possess. 
This  talent,  however,  has  been  very  sparingly 
employed.  Certain  buffoons  and  scribblers  in 
Sunday  newspapers,  who  have  been  opposed 
from  political  principles,  or  rather  whose  pay  at 
the  moment  was  on  the  opposite  side  to  that 
taken  by  the  venerable  poet,  impudently 
ascribed  a  thousand  bons-mots  and  repartees  to 
Rogers,  whom  they  never  saw  in  their  lives, 
and  which  they  manufactured  themselves.  Ilia 
skill  in  writing  epigram,  however,  is  acknow- 
ledged ;  but  what  he  has  produced  is  the  work 
of  the  scholar  and  the  gentleman  ;  for  there  is 
not  an  individual  in  existence  less  likely  to  tres- 
pass on  the  rules  prescribed  for  the  conduct  of 
either,  by  the  regulations  of  social  intercourse. 

Our  poet  has  travelled  mn-^h  out  of  his  ov/n 
count»^7.  and  he  is  not  less  a  master  of  mannera 


10  MEMOin    OF  SAr^UEL   KOGERS. 

in  the  better  classes  of  society  abroad  than  at 
home.  His  "  Sketches  in  Italy,"  prove  that  he 
was  no  unobservant  sojourner  abroad ;  and  as 
his  opportunities  for  observation  were  great,  he 
did  not  fail  to  profit  by  them  proportionately.— 
This  may  be  noticed  in  his  conversation,  which 
is  always  amusing  and  instructive ;  and,  more 
particularly,  when,  visiting  the  circles  of  his 
fashionable  or  learned  friends,  he  becomes  the 
spokesman  on  some  topic  whicli  interests  him, 
and  which  he  sees  affording  gratification  to  others. 
Rogers  never  entered  upon  the  stormy  ocean 
of  politics.  This  is  singular,  from  the  number 
of  his  political  friends,  and  the  example  set  him 
by  his  Either.  The  elder  Rogers  was  renowned 
in  the  annals  of  parliamentary  elections  for  a 
severe  contest  with  Colonel  Holroyd,  subse- 
qiiently  Lord  Sheffield,  in  dividing  die  suffrages 
of  the  city  of  Coventry,  when  the  obstinacy  of 
the  combat  attracted  much  attention.  He  has 
wisely  preferred  the  gratification  of  a  pure  taste, 
and  the  interchanges  of  urbanity,  to  the  stirring 
hazards  of  political  ambition:  notwithstanding 
which  he  is  a  warm  partisan  of  the  principles 
he  has  chosen,  and  understands  well  how  to 
maintain  them.  What  he  has  done  every  way 
proves  that  he  is  conscious  of  his  own  powers, 
b/'t  careless  of  indulging  them,  though  much  in 
this  respect  may  no  doubt  be  attributed  to  hia 
unceasing  attention  to  the  calls  of  business, 
fron?  which  he  never  allows  himself  to  be  di« 
ver  ed. 


WEMOIU    Of  SA:.IUEL   KOJEItS.  li 

Rogers  is  now  in  the  "  sere  and  yellow  leaf" 
of  human  vegetation.  He  is  the  kind,  agreea* 
ble,  affable  old  man  ;  but  there  is  nothing  be- 
yond the  good  and  amiable  in  character  depicted 
upon  a  countenance  by  no  means  the  best 
formed  and  most  impressive  of  the  species,  if 
the  features  are  separately  considered.  His 
habits  are  remarkably  regular,  and  his  conduct 
governed  by  that  urbanity  and  breeding  which 
show  he  has  been  accustomed  to  mingle  most 
in  the  best  society. — He  takes  a  great  interest 
in  all  that  promotes  the  improvement  of  the 
state  and  contributes  to  the  comfort  and  happi- 
ness of  his  fellow-men.  In  short,  Rogers,  like 
all  men  of  genius,  if  possessing  certain  eccen- 
tricities, is  gifted  with  the  impress  of  high  in- 
tellect which  belongs  to  that  character,  and 
which  makes  it  so  distinguished  above  the  herd 
of  mankind.  There  is  about  Rogers,  however, 
a  sort  of  otium  cum  dignitate  which  seems  to 
repress  his  energies,  and  to  keep  inactive  a  spirit 
which,  had  it  been  less  indebted  to  good  fortune 
and  flung  more  upon  its  own  resources,  would 
have  performed  greater  things. 

Among  the  friends  of  Rogers  were  Fox,  Sher 
idan,  Windham,  and  a  galaxy  of  distinguished 
names,  when  they  were  in  the  zenith  of  their 
glory.  To  the  illustrious  nephew  of  Fox,  the 
well-known  Lord  Holland,  and  to  his  friends  of 
the  same  political  party,  Rogers  still  adheres. 
He  is  accounted  one  of  the  literary  coterie  at 
Holland  He  use,  the  hospitable  receptacle  of  men 


12  KEMOIR  OF  iAMUEL    uOGF.KS. 

of  talent  from  all  couiUries  and  of  all  creeds.  Il6 
IS  introduced  in  the  Novel  of  "  Glenarvon"  at 
the  court  of  the  Princess  of  Madagascar  (a 
character  intended  for  Lady  Holland) ;  and  per- 
haps the  name  of  no  individual  is  more  on  the 
lips  of  a  certain  fashionable  order  of  persons  who 
are  attached  to  literary  pursuits,  than  that  of 
Rogers.  His  opinion  is  looked  up  to,  and  justly, 
as  one  of  great  weight ;  and  though  not  devoicl 
of  a  certain  irritability  of  temper,  his  general 
good-nature  and  kindness, — for  he  shows  no 
tincture  of  envy  in  his  character, — contribute 
largely  to  increase  the  influence  and  impression 
made  by  his  judgment. 

Such  is  the  sum  of  all  which  "s  known  of 
Samuel  Roger?, — a  poet  who  never  rises  to  the 
height  of  Byron  or  Campbell,  but  who  is  of  the 
same  school.  He  is  remarkable  principally  for 
the  elegance  and  grace  of  his  compositions, 
which  he  polishes  up  and  smooths  off  as  if  he 
valued  only  their  brilliancy  and  finish,  and  for- 
got that  strength  and  force  are  essential  to  poetic 
harmony  and  the  perfection  of  metrical  style. 
Notwithstanding  this  defect,  Rogers  will  be 
read  and  admired  while  the  English  language 
continues  to  be  used  or  spoken  in  his  native 
islands. 


ITALY. 

FART  1. 

• 

I. 
THE  LAKE  OF  GFNKVA. 

Dly  glimmer'd  in  the  east,   and  th<»  i^hit* 

Moon 
Kung  like  a  vapour  in  the  cloudless  sk}  ^ 
Yet  visible,  when  on  my  way  I  went, 
Glad  to  be  gone — a  pilgrim  from  the  north, 
Now  more  and  more  attracted  as  I  drew 
Nearer  and  nearer.     Ere  the  artisan, 
Drowsy,  half-clad,  had  from  his  window  Iean^ 
With  folded  arm.s  and  listless  look  to  snuff 
The  morning  air,  or  the  caged  sky-lark  sung, 
From  his  green  sod  up-springing — but  in  \ai^ 
His  tuneful  bill  o'erflowing  with  a  song 
Old  in  the  days  of  Homer,  and  his  wings 
With  transport  quivering,  on  my  way  i  went 
Thy  gates,  Geneva,  swinging  heavily. 
Thy  gates  so  slow  to  open,  swift  to  shut ; 
As  on  that  Sabbath-eve  when  he  arrived,* 

*Rosseau. 


:4  ITALY. 

Whose  name  is  now  thy  glory,  new  by  thc« 
Inscribed  to  consecrate  (such  virtue  dwells 
In  those  small  syllables)  the  narrow  street, 
His  birth-place — when,  but  one  short  step  too 

late, 
He  sate  him   down  and  wept — wept   till  the 

morning ; 
Then    rose   to   go — a  wanderer  througn    the 

world. 
'T  is  not  a  tale  that  every  hour  brings  with  it. 
Yet  at  a  City-gate,  from  time  to  time. 
Much  might  be  learnt ;  and  most  of  all  at  thine 
London — thy  hive  the  busiest,  greatest,  still 
Gathering,  enlarging  still.     Let  us  stand  by, 
And  note   who   passes.    Here   comes  one,   a 

Youth, 
Glowing   with  pride,    the   pride   of  conscious 

power, 
A  Chatterton — in  thought  admired,  caress'd, 
And  crown' d  like  Petrarch  in  the  Capitol; 
Ere  long  to  die — to  fall  by  his  own  hand, 
And  fester  with  the  vilest.     Here  come  two, 
Less  feverish,  less  exalted — soon  'O  part, 
A  Garrick  and  a  Johnson  ;  Wea'ith  and  Fame 
Awaiting  one — even  at  the  gate,  Neglect 
And  Want  the  other.     But  what  multitudes. 
Urged  by  the  love  of  change,  and,  like  myself, 
Adventurous,  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare, 
Press  on — though  but  a  rill  entering  the  Sea, 
Entering  and  lost !   Our  task  would  ne\'er  end. 

Day  glimmer'd  and  I  v/ent,  a  gentle  breeze 
Ruffling  the  Leman  Lake.     Wave  after  wave, 


ITALY.  15 

[f  such  they  might  be  call'd,  clash'd  as  in  sport, 
Not  anger,  with  the  pebbles  on  the  beach 
Making  wild  music,  and  far  westward  caught 
The  sun-beam — where,  alone,  and  as  entranced, 
Counting  the  hours,  the  fisher  in  his  skiff 
Lay  with  his  circular  and  dotted  line, 
Fishing  in  silence.     When  the  heart  is  light 
With  hope,  all  pleases,  nothing  comes  amiss  ; 
And  soon  a  passage-boat  swept  gaily  by, 
Laden  with  peasant-girls  and  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  many  a  chanticleer  and  partlet  caged 
For  Vevay's  market-place — a  motley  group 
Seen  through  the  silvery  haze.  But  soon  'twas 

gone. 
The  shifting  sail  flapp'd  idly  for  an  instant, 
Then  bore  them  off. 

I  am  not  one  of  those 
So  dead  to  all  things  in  this  visible  world. 
So  wondrously  protbund — as  to  move  on 
In  the  sweet  light  of  heaven,  like  him  of  old 
(His  name  is  justly  in  the  Calendar) 
Who  through  the  day  pursued  this  pleasant  path 
That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty, 
And,  when  at  eve  his  fellow-pilgrims  sate, 
Discoursing  of  the  lake,  ask'd  where  it  was. 
They  marvell'd,  as  they  might ;  and  so  must  all. 
Seeing  what  now  I  saw :  for  now  't  was  day. 
And  the  bright  Sun  was  in  the  firmament, 
A  thousand  shadows  of  a  thousand  hues 
Chequering  the  clear  expanse.    Awhile  his  o:b 
Hung  o'er  thy  trackless  fields  of  snow,  Mom 

Diane, 


lb  ITALY. 

Thy  seas  of  ice  and  ice-built   promontories, 
That  change  their  shapes  for  ever  as  in  sport ; 
Then  travell'd  onward,  and  went  down  behind 
The  pine-clad  heights  of  Jura,  lighting  up 
The  woodman's  casement,  and  perchance  hifl 

axe 
Borne  homeward  through  the  forest  in  his  hand ; 
And,  in  some  deep  and  melancholy  glen, 
That  dungeon-fortress  never  to  be  named, 
VVhere^  like  a  lion  taken  in  the  toils, 
Toussaint  breathed  out  his  brave  and  generouj 

spirit. 
Ah,  little  did  He  think,  who  sent  him  there, 
That  he  himself,  then  greatest  among  men, 
Should  in  like  manner  be  so  soon  convey'd 
Across  the  ocean — to  a  rock  so  small 
Amid  the  countless  multitude  of  waves. 
That   ships  have  gone  and  sought  it,  and  re 

turn'd, 
Saying  it  was  not  1 

Still  along  the  shore, 
Among  the  trees  I  went  for  many  a  mile, 
Where  damsels  sit  and   weave   their   fishing. 

nets, 
Singing  some  national  song  by  the  way-side. 
But  now  't  was  dusk,   and  journeying  by  the 

Rhone, 
That  there  came  down,  a  torrent  from  the  AIps» 
I  enter'd  where  a  key  unlocks  a  kingdom,* 
The  mountains  closing,  and  the  road,  the  river 

*  St.  Maurice. 


ITALY.  17 

Fillin.fj  the  narrow  pass.     I'here,  till  a  ray 
Glanced  through  my  lattice,  and  the  household 

stir 
Wam'd  me  to  rise,  to  rise  and  to  depart, 
A  stir  unusual  and  accompanied 
Whh  many  a  tuning  of  rude  instruments, 
And  many  a  laugh  that  argued  coming  plea 

sure, 
Mine  host's  fair  daughter  for  the  nuptial  rite, 
And  nuptial  feast  attiring — there  I  slept, 
And  in  my  dreams  wander'd  once  more,  well- 
pleased. 
But  now  a  charm  was  on  the  rocks,  and  woods, 
And  waters  ;  for,  methought,  I  was  with  those 
I  had  at  morn,  at  even,  wish'd  for  there. 

I. 
THE  GREAT  ST.  BERP^ARD. 

I^iGHT   was    again    descending,    when    my 
mule, 
That  all  day  long  had  climb' d  among  the  clouds. 
Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 
Let  down  from  Heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 
Stopp'd,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door 
So  near  the  summit  of  thr  Great  St.  Bernard ; 
That  door  which  ever  on  its  hinges  moved 
To  them  that  knock'd  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  Spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me 
2 


18  ITALY. 

AH  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  oflimb » 
And  a  lay-brother  of  the  Hospital, 
Who,  as  we  toil'd  below,  had  heard  by  fits 
The  distant  echoes  gaining  en  his  ear, 
Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand. 
While  I  alighted. 

Long  could  I  have  stood, 
With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 
That  House,  the  highest  in  the  Ancient  World, 
And  placed  there  for  the  noblest  purposes. 
'T  was  a  rude  pile  cf  simplest  masonry, 
With  narrow  windows  and  vast  buttresses. 
Built  to  endure  the  shocks  of  Time  and  Chance, 
Yet  showing  many  a  rent,  as  well  it  might, 
Warr'd  on  for  ever  by  the  elements, 
And  in  an  evil  day,  nor  long  ago, 
By  violent  men — when  on  the  mountain-top 
The  French  and  Austrian  banners  met  in  con- 
flict. 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church, 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity  ; 
The  vesper-bell,  for  't  was  the  vesper-hour, 
Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness, 
"  All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work. 
Stop  for  an  instant — move  your  lips  in  prayer  I** 
And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale, 
If  dale  it  might  be  call'd,  so  near  to  Heaven, 
A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leap'd  up, 
Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow ; 
A  star,  the  on]y  one  in  that  small  sky, 


TTKLY.  19 

On  its   dead  surface  glimn  ering.    'T  was  a 

scene 
Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind, 
As   though   ail  worldly   ties  were   now    dis- 
solved ; — 
And  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought, 
To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 
Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood  half  in  shade  w        '^ 
A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead. 
For  such  as,  having  wander'd  from  their  way, 
Had  perish'd  miserably.    Side  by  side, 
Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company 
All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them  ; 
Their  features  full  of  life,  yet  motionless 
In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 
Though    the  barr'd  windows,  barr'd  against 

the  wolf, 
Are  always  open ! 

But  the  Bise  blew  cold  ; 
And,  bidden  to  a  spare  but  cheerful  meal, 
I  sate  among  the  holy  brotherhood 
At  their  long  board.     The  fare  indeed  was  such 
As  is  prescribed  on  days  of  abstinence. 
But  might  have  pleased  a  nicer  taste  than  mine ; 
And  through  the  floor  came  up,  an   ancieit 

matron 
Serving  unseen  below ;  while  from  tke  roof 
(The  roof,  the  floor,  the  walls  of  native  fir), 
A  lamp  hung  flickering,  such  as  loves  to  fling 
Its  partial  light  on  Apostolic  heads, 
And  sheds  a  grace  on  all.     Theirs  Time  as  yet 


20  ITALY. 

Had  changed  not.     Some  were  almost  in  the 

prime ; 
Nor  was  a  brow  o'ercast.    Seen  as  I  saw  them, 
Ranged  round  their  ample  hearth-stone  in  an 

hour 
Of  rest, they  were  as  gay,  as  free  from  guile, 
As  children ;  answering,  and  at  once,  to  all 
The  gentler  impulses,  to  pleasure,  mirth  ; 
Mingling,  at  intervals,  with  rational  talk 
Music ;  and  gathering  news  from   them  that 

came, 
As  of  some  other  world.    But  when  the  storm 
Rose,  and  the  snow  roU'd  on  in  ocean-billows, 
When  on  his  face  the  experienced     traveller 

fell. 
Sheltering  his  lips  and  nostrils  with  his  hands, 
Then  all  was  changed ;  and,  sallying  with  their 

pack 
Into  that  blank  of  nature,  they  became 
Unearthly  beings.     "  Anselm,  higher  up. 
Just  where  it  drifts,  a  dog  howls  loud  and  long, 
And  now,  as  guided  by  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Digs  with  his  feet.     That  noble  vehemence 
Whose  can  it  be,  but  his  who  never  err'd  ? 
Let  us  to  work  !  tliere  is  no  time  to  lose ! — 
But    who   descends    Mont   Velan?    'T  is   La 

Croix, 
Away,  away!  if  not,  alas,  too  late. 
Homeward  he  drags  an  old  man  and  a  boy. 
Faltering  and  falling,  and  but  half  awaken'd, 
Asking  to  sleep  again."     Such  their  discourse. 


ITALY.  21 

Oft  has  a  venerable  roof  received  me ; 
St.    Bnino's   once* — where,  when   the   winds 

were  hush'd, 
Nor  from  the  cataract  the  voice  came  up, 
You  might  have  heard  the   mole  work  under- 
ground, 
So  great  the  stillness  of  that  place  ;  none  seen, 
Save  v/hen  from  rock  to  rock  a  hermit  cross'd 
By  some  rude  bridge — or  one  at  midnight  toll'd 
To  matins,  and  white  habits,  issuing  forth, 
Glided  along  those  aisles  interminable. 
All,  all  observant  of  the  sacred  law 
Of  silence.     Nor  is  that  ^equester'd  spot. 
Once    called    "  Sweet   Waters,"    now    "The 

Shady  Vale,"t 
To  me  unknown ;  that  house  so  rich  of  old. 
So   courteous,   and   by  two,    that  pass'd   that 

way,1: 
Amply  requited  with  immortal  verse. 
The  Poet's  payment. 

But,  among  them  all. 
None  can  with  this   compare,    the   dangerous 

seat 
Of   generous,    active   Virtue.     What    though 

Frost  » 

Reign  everlastingly,  and  ice  and  snow 
Thaw  not,  but  gather — there  is  that  within, 

*  The  Grande  Chartreuse. 

t  Vallombrosa,  formerly  called  Acqua  Bella. 

1  Arioaloan'  Mi^  .oil. 


22  ITALY. 

V/hich,  where  it  comes,  makes  Summer ;  aa-i 

in  thoughl, 
Oft  am  I  sitting  on  the  bench  beneath 
Their  garden-plot,  where  all  that  vegetates 
I5  but  S(ime  scanty  lettuce,  to  observe 
Those  from  the  South  ascending,  every  step 
As  though  it  were  their  last — and  instantly 
Restored,  renew'd,  advancing  as  with  songs, 
Soon  as  thy  see,  turning  a  lofty  crag. 
That  plain,  that  modest  structure,  promising 
Bread  to  the  hungry,  (3)  to  the  weary  rest. 

III. 
THE  DESCENT. 

My   mule   refresh' d — and,   let  the  truth  be 

told, 
He  was  not  of  that  vile,  that  scurvy  race, 
From  sire  to  son  lovers  of  controversy, 
But  patient,  diligent,  and  sure  of  foot, 
Shunning  the  loose  stone  on  the  precipice. 
Snorting   suspicion  while   with   sight,    smell, 

touch. 
Examining  the  wet  and  spongy  moss. 
And  on  his  haunches  sitting  to  slide  down 
The  steep,  the  smooth — my  mule  refresh'd,  hia 

bells 
Gingled  once  more,  the  signal  to  depart, 
And  we  set  out  in  the  gray  Hght  of  dawn, 
Descending  rapidly — by  waterfalls 
Fast-frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 


ITAIY.  23 

That  in  their  long  career  had  stopt  mid-way, 
At  length,  uncheck'd   unbidden,  he  stood  still ; 
And  ail  his   bells   were   raiilBed.     Then  my 

Guide, 
Lowering  his  voice,  address' d  me  :  "  Through 

this  Chasm 
On  and  say  nothing — for  a  word,  a  breath, 
Stirring  the  air,  may  loosen  and  bring  down 
A  winter's  snow — enough  to  overwhelm 
The  horse  and  foot  that,  night  and  day,  defiled 
Along  this  path  to  conquer  at  Marengo. 
Well  I  remember  how  I  met  them  here, 
As  the  light  died  away,  and  how  Napoleon, 
Wrapt  in  his  cloak — I  could  not  be  deceived 
Rein'd  in  his  horse,  and  ask'd  me,  as  I  pass'd, 
How  far  't  was  to  St.  Remi.     Where  the  rock 
Juts  forward,  and  the  road,  crumbling  away, 
Narrows  almost  to  nothing  at  its  base, 
'T  was  there;   and  down  along  the  brink  ho 

led 
To  Victory  ! — Dessaix,  v/ho  turn'd  the  scale,  (4) 
Leaving  his  life-blood  in  that  famous  field 
(When  the  clouds  break,  we  may    discern  the 

spot 
In  the   blue    haze),    sleeps,    as    you    saw  at 

dawn. 
Just  as  you  enter' d,  in  the  Hospital- church." 
So  saying,  for  awhile  he  held  his  peace. 
Awe-struck  beneath  that  dreadful  Canopy  ; 
But  soon,  the   danger  pass'd,   launch'd  f>rth 

again. 


a  ITALT. 

IV. 

JORASSE. 

JoRASSE  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year ; 
Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused ; 
Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech, 
Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.     He  had  grown  up 
Among  the  Hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps ; 
Had  caught  their  starts  end  fits  of  thoughtfulness, 
Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies, 
Said, to  arise  by  those  who  dwell  below, 
From   frequent   deaUngs  with   the   Mountain- 
Spirits. 
But  other  ways  had  taught  him  better  things ; 
And  now  he  numbered,  marching  by  my  side. 
The  Savans,  Princes,  who  with  him  had  cross'd 
The  frozen  tract,  with  him  familiarly 
Through  the  rough  day  and  rougher  night  con- 
versed 
In  many  a  chalet  round  the  peak  of  terror,* 
Round  Tacul,  Tour,  Well-horn  and  Rosenlau, 
And  Her,  whose  throne  is  inaccessible, t 
Who  sits,  withdrawn,  in  virgin-majesty, 
Nor  oft  unveils.    Anon  an  Avalanche 
Roll'd  its  long  thunder  ;  and  a  sudden  crash, 
Sharp  and  metallic,  to  the  startled  ear 
Told  that  far-down  a  continent  cf  Ice 
Had  burst  in  twain.     But  he  had  now  begun, 
And  with  what  transport  he  recall' d  the  hour 
When  to  deserve,  t<?  win  his  blooming  bride, 

*  The  Schrekhorn  t  Tlie  Jun?-frau. 


ITALY.  25 

MadelaiRfi  of  Annecy,  to  his  feet  he  bound 
The  iron  crampons,  and,  ascending,  trod 
The  Upper  realms  of  Frost ;  then,  by  a  cord 
Let  half-way  down,  enter'd  a  Grot  star-bright 
And  gathered  from  above,  below,  around, 
The  pointed  crystals ! 

Once,  nor  long  befors 
(Thus  did  his  tongue  run  on,  fast  as  his  feet. 
And  with  an  eloquence  that  Nature  gives 
To  all  her  children — breaking  off  by  starts 
Into  the  harsh  and  rude,  oft  as  the  Mule 
Drew  his  displeasure)  once,  nor  long  before, 
Alone  at  day-break  on  the  Mettenberg, 
He  slipp'd,  he  fell ;  and,  through  a  fearful  cleft 
Ghding   from   ledge   to   ledge,    from   deep   to 

deeper, 
Went  to  the  Under- world  !     Long- while  he  lay 
Upon  his  rugged  bed — then  waked  like  on 3 
Wishing  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  for  ever  .' 
For,  looking  round,  he  saw  or  thought  he  saw 
Innumerable  branches  of  a  Cavern, 
Winding  beneath  a  solid  crust  of  ice  ; 
With  here  and  there  a  rent  that  show'd  the 

stars  ! 
What  then,  alas,  was  left  him  but  to  die  ? 
What  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers, 
Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men. 
Lost  like  himself  ?     Yet  must  he  wander  on, 
Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free  ! 
And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round  ; 
When  hark,  the  noise  as  of  s'^me  mighty  River 


26  iialy. 

Working  its  way  to  light !     Back  he  withdrew. 
But  soon  reurn'd,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 
Dash'd  down  the  dismal  Channel ;  and  all  day, 
If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 
Travell'd  incessan^'ly,  the  craggy  roof 
Just  over-head,  and  the  impetuous  waves, 
Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strength 
Lashing  him  on.     At  last  the  water  slept 
In  a  dead  lake — at  the  third  step  he  took, 
Unfathomable — and  the  roof,  that  long 
Had  threaten'd,  suddenly  descending,  lay 
Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood, 
His  journey  ended  ;  when  a  ray  divine 
Shot  through  his  soul.    Breathing  a  prayer  tj 

Her 
Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
He  plunged,  he  swam — and  in  an  instant  rose, 
The  barrier  past,  in  light,  in  sunshine  !  Through 
A  smiling  valley,  full  of  cottages, 
Ghttering  the  river  ran  ;  and  on  the  bank 
The  young  were  dancing  C't  was  a  festival-day) 
All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 
His  Madelaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 
When  all  drew  round,  inquiring  ;  and  her  face, 
Seen  behind  all,  and,  varying,  as  he  spoke. 
With  hope,  and  fear,  and  generous  sympathy, 
Subdued  him.    From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

The  tale  was  long,  but  coming  to  a  close 
When  his  dark  eye  flash'd  fire;  and,  stopping 
short. 


ITALf.  27 

Uc  listened  and  look'd  up.     1  look'd  up  loo  ; 
And  twice  there  came  a  hiss  that  through  me 

thrill' d  ! 
'T  was  heard  no  more.     A  Chamois  on  the  cliff 
liad  roused  his  fellows  with  that  cry  of  fear, 
And  all  were  gone. 

But  now  the  thread  was  broken:, 
Love  and  its  joys  had  vanish' d  from  his  mind ; 
And  he  recounted  his  hair-breadth  escapes 
When  with  his  friend,  Hubert  of  Bionnay, 
<His  ancient  carbine  from  his  shoulder  slung, 
His  axe  to  hew  a  stair-case  in  the  ice) 
He  track'd  their  footsteps.     By  a  cloud  sur 

prised, 
Upon  a  crag  among  the  precipices, 
Where   the  next  step   had  hurl'd  them   fifty 

fathoms, 
Oft  had  they  stood,  lock'd  in  each  other's  arms. 
All  the  long  night  under  a  freezing  sky, 
Each  guardmg  each  the  while   from  sleeping, 

falling. 
Oh,  't  was  a  sport  he  lov'd  dearer  than  life, 
And  only  would  with  life  itself  relinquish  ! 
"  My  sire,  my  grandsire  died  among  these  wilda. 
As  for  myself,"  he  cried,  and  he  held  forth 
His  wallet  in  his  hand,  "  this  do  I  call 
My  winding-sheet — for  I  shall  have  no  other  !*' 

And  he  spoke  truth.     Within  a  little  month 
He  lay  among  these  awful  solitudes, 
('T  was  on  a  glacier — half-way  up  to  Heaven) 
Taking  his  finrJ  rest.    Long  did  his  wife 


Suckling  her  3abe,  her  only  one,  look  out 
'J  he  way  he  went  at  parting,  but  he  came  not! 
Long  fear  to  close  her  eyes,  lest  in  her  sleep 
(Such  their  belief)  he  should  appear  before  her, 
Frozen  and  ghastly  pale,  or  crush' d  and  bleed* 

ing, 
To  tell  her  where  he  lay,  and  supplicate 
For  the  last  rite  !     At  length  the  dismal  news 
Came  to  her  ears,  and  to  her  eyes  his  corse. 

MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS. 

Now  the  grey  granite,  starting  through  the 

snow, 
Discover'd  many  a  variegated  moss* 
That  to  the  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff 
Sliadows  out  capes  and  islands  ;  and  ere  long 
Numberless  flowers,  such  as  disdain  to  live 
In  lower  regions,  and  delighted  drink 
The  clouds  before  they  fall,  flowers  of  all  hues. 
With    their    diminutive    leaves    cover' d    the 

ground. 
*T  was  then,  that,  turning  by  an  ancient  larch, 
Shi\'er'd  in  two,  yet  most  majestical 
With  its  long  level  branches,  we  observed 
A  human  figure  sitting  on  a  stone 
Far  down  by  the  way-side — just  where  the  rock 
Is  riven  asunder,  and  the  Evil  One 
Has  bridged  the  gulf  a  v*'ondrous  monument  (5) 

*  Lichen  Geographicus. 


iTALT.  2S 

Built  in  one  night,  from  which  the  flood  beneath, 
Raging  along,  all  foam,  is  seen  not  heard, 
And  seen  a?  motionless  ! 

Nearer  we  drew, 
And  't  was  a  woman  young  and  deUcate, 
Wrapt  in  a  russet  cloak  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand 
In  deepest  thought.     Young  as  she  was,  she 

wore 
The    matron- cap ;    and    from    her   shape   we 

judged, 
As  well  we  might,  that  it  would  not  be  long 
Ere  she  became  a  mother.     Pale  she  look'd. 
Yet  cheerful ;  though,  methought,  once,  if  not 

twice, 
She  wiped  away  a  tear  that  woaid  be  coming  : 
And  in  those  moments  her  small  hat  of  straw. 
Worn  on  one  side,  and  garnish' d  with  a  riband 
Glittering  with  gold,  but  ill  conceal' d  a  face 
Not  soon  to  be  forgotten.     Rising  up 
On  our  approach,  she  journey'd  slowly  on  ; 
And  my  companion,  long  before  we  met. 
Knew,  and  ran  down  to  greet  her. 

She  was  born 
(Such  was  her  artless  tale,  told  with  fresh  teara) 
In  Val  d'Aosta  ;  and  an  Alpine  stream, 
Leaping  from  crag  to  crag  in  its  short  course 
To  join  the  Dora,  turn'd  her  father's  mill. 
There  did  she  blossom  till  a  Valaisan, 
A  townsman  of  Martigny,  won  her  heart, 
Much  to  the  old  man's  grief    Long  he  held  out. 
Unwilling  to  resign  her  ;  and  at  length, 


30  ITALY. 

When  the  third  summer  came,  they  stole  a 

match 
And  fled.     The  act  was  sudden ;  and  when  far 
Away,  her  spirit  had  misgivings.     Then 
She  pictured  to  herself  that  aged  face 
Sickly  and  wan,  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger  ; 
And,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  hour  was  near, 
Went  forth  unseen,  and,  burden'd  as  she  was, 
Cross'd  the  high  Alps  on  foot  to  ask.  forgiveness, 
And  hold  him  to  her  heart  before  he  died. 
Her  task  was  done.    She  had  fulfill' d  her  wish, 
And  now  was  on  her  way,  rejoicing,  weeping. 
A  frame  like  hers  had  suffer' d ;  but  her  love 
Was  strong  within  her  ;  and  right  on  she  went, 
Fearing  no  ill.    May  all  good  Angels  guard  her  ! 
And  should  I  once  again,  as  once  I  may, 
Visit  Martigny,  I  will  not  forget 
Thy  hospitable  roof.  Marguerite  de  Tours  ; 
Thy   sign  the  silver  swan.*    Heaven  prosper 

I'hee  I 

VI. 

THE  ALPS. 

Who  first  beholds  those  everlasting  clouds, 
Seed-time    and    harvest,   morning,   noon  and 

night, 
Still  where  they  were,  steadfast,  immovable  ; 
Who  first  beholds  the  Alps— that  mighty  chain 
Of  Mountains,  stretching  on  from  east  to  west, 

♦  La  Cygne. 


ITALY.  31 

So  massive,  yet  so  shadowy,  so  ethereal, 

As  to  belong  rather  to  Heaven  than  Earth 

But  instantly  receives  into  his  soul 

A  sense,  a  feeling  that  he  loses  not, 

A  something  that  informs  him  't  is  a  moment 

Whence  he  may  date  hencicforward  and  for  ever! 

To  me  they  seem'd  the  barriers  of  a  World, 
Saying,  Thus  far,  no  farther  !  and  as  o'er 
The  level  plain  I  travell'd  silently, 
Nearing  them  more  and  more,  day  after  day, 
My  wandering  thoughts  m.y  only  company, 
And  they  before  me  still,  oft  as  I  look'd, 
A  strange  delight,  mingled  with  fear,  came  o'er 

me 
A  wonder  as  at  things  I  had  not  heard  of! 
Oft  as  I  look'd,  I  felt  as  though  it  were 
For  the  first  tim.e  ! 

Great  was  the  tumult  there, 
Deafening  the  din,  when  in  barbaric  pomp 
The  Carthaginian  on  his  march  to  Rome 
Entered  their  fastnesses.    Trampling  the  snows, 
The  war-horse  reared;   and  the  tower' d  ele« 

phant 
Upturn' d  his  trunk  into  the  murky  sky. 
Then  tumbled  headlong,  swallow'dup  and  lost, 
He  and  his  rider. 

Now  the  scene  is  changed  , 
And  o'er  Mont  Cenis,  o'er  the  Simplon  wind* 
A  path  of  pleasure.     Like  a  silver  zone 
Flimg  about  carelessly,  it  shines  afar, 
Catching  the  eye  in  many  a  broken  link, 


In  many  a  turn  and  traverse  as  it  glides; 
And  oft  above  and  oft  below  appears, 
Seen  o'er  the  wall  by  him  who  journeys  up, 
-As  though  it  were  another,  not  the  same, 
Leading  along  he  knows  not  whence  or  whithcf 
Yet  through  its  fairy  course,  go  where  it  will, 
The  torrent  stops  it  not,  the  rugged  rock 
Opens  and  lets  it  in  ;  and  on  it  runs. 
Winning  its  easy  way  from  clime  to  clime 
Through  glens  lock'd  up  before. 

Not  such  my  path! 
Mine  but  for  those,  who,  like  Jean  Jacques,  de- 
light 
In  dizziness,  gazing  and  shuddering  on 
Till  fascination  comes  and  the  brain  turns ! 
Mine,  though  I  judge  but  from  my  ague-fits 
Over  the  D ranee,  just  where  the  Abbot  fell, 
The  same  as  Hannibal's. 

But  now  't  is  past, 
That  turbulent  Chaos  ;  and  the  promised  land 
Lies  at  my  feet  in  all  its  loveliness ! 
To  him  who  starts  up  from  a  terrible  dream, 
And  lo  the  sun  is  shining,  and  the  lark 
Singing  aloud  for  joy,  to  him  is  not 
Such  sudden  ravishment  as  now  I  feel 
At  the  first  glimpses  of  fair  Italy. 

VII. 

COMO. 

I  LOVE  to  sail  along  the  Larian  Lake 
Under  the  shore — though  not  to  visit  Phny, 


To  catch  him  musing  in  his  plane-tree  walk, 
Or  fishing,  as  he  might  be,  from  his  window 
A.nd,to  deal  pkiinly,(may  his  Shade  forgive  me  !) 
Could  I  recall  the  ages  past,  and  play 
The  fool  with  Time,  I  should  perhaps  reserve 
My  leisure  for  Catullus  on  his  Lake, 
Though  to  fare  worse,  or  Virgil  at  his  farm 
A  little  further  on  the  way  to  Mantua. 
But  such  things  cannot  be.     So  I  sit  still, 
And  let  the  boatman  shift  his  little  sail, 
His  sail  so  forked  and  so  swallow-like. 
Well-pleased  with  all  that  comes.     The  morn^ 

ing  air 
Plays  on  my  cheek  how  gently,  flinging  round 
A  silvery  gleam  :  and  now  the  purple  mists 
Rise  like  a  curtain ;  now  the  sun  looks  out, 
Filling,  o'erflowing  with  his  glorious  light 
This  noble  amphitheatre  of  mountains  ; 
And  now  appear  as  on  a  phosphor-sea 
Numberless  barks,  from  Milan,  from  Pavia ; 
Some   sailing  up,    some   down,   and   some   at 

anchor, 
Lading,  \inlading  at  that  small  port-town 
Under  the  promontory — its  tall  tower 
And  long  flat  roof,  just  such  as  Poussin  drew, 
Caught   by   a   sun  beam    slanting   through    a 

cloud ; 
A  quay-like  scene,  glittering  and  full  of  life, 
And  doubled  by  reflection. 

What  dehght, 
After  so  long  a  sojourn  in  the  wild, 
3 


34  IT^LY. 

To  hear  once  more  the  sounds  of  cheerful  labour 
—But  in  a  clime  like  this  where  are  they  not 
Along  the  shores,  among  the  hills  'tis  now 
The  heyday  of  the  Vintage  ;  all  abroad, 
But  most  the  young  and  of  the  gentler  sex. 
Busy  in  gathering ;  all  among  the  vmes, 
Some  on  the  ladder,  and  some  underneath, 
Filling  their  baskets  of  green  wicker-work, 
While  many  a  canzonet  and  frolic  laugh 
Come  through  the  leaves  ;  the  vines  in  light 

festoons 
From  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues. 
And  every  avenue  a  cover' d  walk, 
Hung   with   black   clusters.     'T  is  enough  to 

make 
The  sad  mad  merry,  the  benevolent  one 
Melt  into  tears — so  general  is  the  joy  ! 
While  up  and  down  the  cliffs,  over  the  lake, 
Wains  oxen-drawn,  and  pannier' d  mules   are 

seen, 
Laden  with  grapes,  and  dropping  rosy  wine. 

Here  I  received  from  thee,  Filippo  Mori, 
One  of  those  courtesies  so  sweet,  so  rare  ! 
When,    as  I  rambled  through  thy  vineyard* 

ground 
On  the  hill-side,  thou  sent'st  thy  little  son, 
Charged  with  a  bunch  almost  as  high  as  he, 
To  press  it  on  the  stranger. 

May  thy  vats 
O'ertlow,  and  he,  thy  -villing  gift-bearer. 


Live  to  be  come  ere-long  himself  a  giver, 
And  indue  time,  when  thou  art  full  of  honour, 
The  staff  of  thine  old  age  ! 

In  a  strange  land 
Such  things,  hov/ever  trifling,  reach  the  hearty 
And  through  the  heart  the  head,  clearing  away 
The  narrow  notions  tnat  grow  up  at  home. 
And  in  their  place  grafting  Good- Will  to  All. 
At  least  I  found  it  so  ;  nor  less  at  eve, 
When,  bidden  as  an  English  traveller 
('T  was  by  a  little  boat  that  gave  me  chase 
With  oar  and  sail,  as  homeward-bound  I  cross'd 
The  bay  of  Tramezzine),  right  readily 
I  turn'd  my  prow  and  follow' d,  landing  soon   ■ 
Where  steps  of  purest  marble  met  the  wave  ; 
Where,  through  the  trellises  and  corridors, 
Soft  music  came  as  from  Armida's  palace, 
Breathing   enchantment  o'er  the    woods,    the 

waters ; 
And  through  a  bright  pavilion,  bright  as  day. 
Forms  such  as  hers  w^ere  tlitting,  lost  among 
Such  as  of  old  in  sober  pomp  swept  by, 
Such  as  adorn  the  triumphs  and  the  feasts 
Painted  by  Caghari ;  where  the  world  danced 
Under  the  starry  sky,  while  I  look'd  on, 
Admiring,  listening,  quaffing  gramolata. 
And  reading,  in  the  eyes  that  sparkled  round 
The  thousand  love-adventures  written  there. 

Can  I  forget — no,  never,  such  a  scene 
So  full  of  witchery  I     Night  linger'd  still, 


36  ITALY. 

When,  with  a  dying  breeze,  I  left  Bellaggio ; 
But  the  strain  follow'd  me  ;  and  still  I  saw 
Thy  smile,  Angelica  ;  and  still  I  heard 
Thy  voice — once  and  again  bidding  adieu. 

VIII. 

BERGAMO. 

The  song  was  one  that  I  had  heard  before, 
But  where  I  knew  not.     It  inclined  to  sadness ; 
And  turning  round  from  the  delicious  fare 
My  landlord's  little  daughter,  Barbara, 
Had  from  her  apron  just  roU'd  out  before  me, 
Figs  and  rock-melons — at  the  door  I  saw 
Two  boys  of  lively  aspect.     Peasant-like 
They  were,  and  poorly  clad,  but  not  unskill'd; 
With  their  small  voices  and  an  old  guitar 
Winning  their  mazy  progress  to  my  heart 
In  that,  the  only  universal  language. 
But  soon  they  changed  the  measure,  entering  on 
A  pleasant  dialogue  of  sweet  and  sour, 
A  war  of  words,  and  waged  with  looks   and 

gestures. 
Between  Trappanti  and  his  ancient  dame, 
Mona  Lucilia.    To  and  fro  it  went ; 
While  many  a  titter  on  the  stairs  was  heard, 
And  Barbara's  among  them. 

When  't  was  done, 
Their  dark  eyes  flash  d  no  longer,  yet,  me- 

thought. 
In  many  a  glance  as  from  the  soul,  express'd 


ITALY.  37 

More  than  enough  to  serve  them.     Far  or  near, 
Few  let  them  pass  unnoticed  ;  and  there  was  not 
A  mother  round  about  for  many  a  league, 
But  could  repeat  their  story.     Twins  they  were, 
And  orphans,  as  I  learnt,  cast  on  the  world ; 
Their  parents  lost  in  the  old  ferry-boat 
That,  three  years  since,  last  Martinmas,  went 

down 
Crossing  the  rough  Penacus.* 

May  they  live 
Blameless  and  happy — rich  they  cannot  be, 
Like  him  who,  in  the  days  of  Minstrelsy,  (7) 
Came  in  a  beggar's  weeds  to  Petrarch's  door, 
Crying  without,  "  Give  me  a  lay  to  sing  !" 
And  soon  in  silk  (such  then  the  power  of  song) 
Return' d  to  thank  him  ;  or  like  him,  wayworn 
And  lost,  who,  by  the  foaming  Adig6 
Descending  from  the  Tyrol,  as  night  fell, 
Knock'd  at  a  city-gate  near  the  hill-foot, 
The  gate  that  bore  so  long,  sculptured  in  stone, 
An  eagle  on  a  ladder,  and  at  once 
Found  welcome — nightly  in  the  banner'd  hall 
Turning  his  harp  to  tales  of  Chivalry 
Before  the  great  jMastino,  (8)  and  his  guests, 
Thethree-and-twenty,  by  some  adverse  fortune, 
By  war  or  treason  or  domestic  r/ialice. 
Reft  of  their  kingly  crowns,  reft  of  their  all, 
And  living  on  his  bounty. 

But  who  now 
Entering  the  chamber,  flourishing  a  scroll 

*Lo2odiGarJa. 


38  ITALY. 

In  bis  right  hand,  his  left  at  every  step 
Brushing  the  floor  with  what  was  once  a  hat 
Of  ceremony.     Gliding  on,  he  comes. 
Slipshod,  ungarter'd  ;  his  long  suit  of  black 
Dingy    and    threadbare,    though    renew'd    in 

patches 
Till  it  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the  old  one. 
At  length  arrived,  and  with  a  shrug  that  pleads 
"  'T  is  my  necessity  !''  he  stops  and  speaks, 
Screwing  a  smile  into  his  dinnerless  face, 

"  I  am  a  Poet,  Signor : — give  me  leave 
To   bid   you   welcome.     Though   you   shrink 

from  notice. 
The  splendour  of  your  name  has  gone  before  you, 
And  Italy  from  sea  to  sea  rejoices. 
As  well  indeed  she  may  !  But  I  transgress  : 
I  too  have  known  the   weight  of  praise,    and 

ought 
To  spare  another." 

Saying  so,  he  laid 
His  sonnet,  an  impromptu,  on  my  table, 
And  bow'd  and  left  me  ;  in  liis  hollow  hand 
Receiving  my  small  tribute,  a  zecchino, 
Unconsciously,  as  doctors  do  their  fees. 

My  omelet,  and  a  flagon  of  hill-wine, 
**  The  very  best  in  Bergamo  !  had  long 
Fled  from  all  eyes  ;  or,  like  the  young  Gil  Blaa 
De  Santillane,  I  had  perhaps  been  seen 
Bartering  my  bread  and  salt  for  empty  praise. 


ITALY.  39 

IX. 

ITALY. 

Am  I  in  Italy  ?    Is  this  the  Minci'is  ? 
y\re  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  Masque 
Saw  her  loved  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by 

him? 
Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 
And  not  a  finger-post  by  the  road-side 
"  To  Mantua" — "  To  Ferrara" — but. excites 
Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Yet  I  could  weep — for  thou  art  lying,  alas  ! 
Low  in  the  dust ;  and  they  who  come,  admire 

thee 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  Beauty. 
Would  thou  hadst  less,  or  wert  as  once  thou 

wast, 
[nspiring  awe  in  those  who  now  enslave  thee  ! 
—Rut  why  despair  ?    Twice  hast   thou   lived 

already. 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world, 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven;  and  shah  again.     The  hour  shali 

come, 
When  they  who   think   to  bind  the   ethereal 

spirit, 
Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey, 


40  ITi  LY. 

Watch  with  quick  eye,  and  stfike  and  strike 

again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  folly.     Even  now  the  flame 
Bursts  forth  where  once  it  burnt  so  gloriously. 
And,  dying,  left  a  spendour  like  the  day, 
That  hke  the  day  diffused  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth — the  light  of  genius,  virtue. 
Greatness   in  though    and  act,    contempt   of 

death, 
Godlike  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  Athens,  Lacedeemon,  were  themselves, 
Since  men  invoked  "  By  Those  in  Marathon!" 
Awake  along  the  JEgea.n ;  and  the  dead. 
They  of  that  sacred  shore,  have  heard  the  call, 
Aud  through  the  ranks,  from  wing  to  wing,  are 

seen 
Moving  as  once  they  were — instead  of  rage 
Breathing  deliberate  valour. 

X. 

COLL'ALTO. 

In  this  neglected  mirror  (9)  (the  broad  frame 
Of  massive  silver  serves  to  testify 
That  many  a  noble  matron  of  the  house 
Has  sate  before  it)  once,  alas,  was  seen 
What  led  to  many  sorrows.     From  that  time 
The  bat  came  hither  for  a  sleeping-place  ; 
And  he,  who  cursed  another  in  his  heari. 


ITALY.  41 

Said,  "Be  thy  dwelling  through  the  day,  the 

night, 
Shunn'd  like  CoU'alto."     'T  was  in  that  old 

Castle, 
Which  flanks  the  clifF  with  its  grey  battlements 
Flung  here  and  there,  and,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 
Hangs  in  the  Trevisan,  that  thus  the  Steward, 
Shaking  his  locks,  the  few  that  Time  had  left 

him, 
Address' d  me,  as  we  enter'd  what  was  call'd 
"My  Lady's  Chamber."     On  the  walls,  the 

chairs, 
Much  yet  remain' d  of  the  rich  tapestry  ; 
Much  of  the  adventures  of  Sir  Lancelot 
In  the  green  glades  of  some  enchanted  foiest. 
The  toilet  table  was  of  massive  silver, 
Florentine  Art,  when  Plorence  was  renown'd ; 
A  gay  confusion  of  the  elements, 
Dolphins  and  boys,   and  shells  and  fruits  and 

flowers, 
And  from  the  ceiling,  in  his  gilded  cage. 
Hung  a  small  bird  of  curious  workmanship. 
That,  when  his  Mistress  bade  him,  would  unfold 
(So  said  at  least  the  babbling  Dame,  Tradition) 
His  emerald-wings,  and  sing  and  sing  again 
The  song  that  pleased  her.     While  1  stood  and 

look'd, 
A  gleam  of  day  yet  lingering  in  the  West, 
The  Steward  went  on. 

"  She  had  ('t  is  now  long  s\«Jfil 
A  gentle  serving-maid,  the  foir  Cristina, 
Fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  spotless  too 


42  iTALr. 

None  so  admired,  beloved.    They  had  grown  up 
As  play-fellows  ;  and  some  there  were,  who 

said, 
Some  who  knew  much,  discoursing  of  Cristina, 
*  She   is  not  what  she  seems.'     When  unre- 
quired, 
She  would  steal  forth  ;  her  custom,  her  delight, 
To  wander  through  and  through  an  ancient  grove 
Self-planted  half-way  down,  losing  herself 
Like  one  in  love  with  sadness ;  and  her  veil 
And  vesture  white,  seen  ever  in  that  place, 
Ever  as  surely  as  the  hours  came  round, 
Among  those  reverend  trees,  gave  her  below 
The  name  of  The  White  Lady.    But  the  day 
Is  gone,  and  I  delay  you. 

In  that  chair 
The  Countess,  as  it  might  be  now,  was  sitting; 
Her  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  Cristina, 
Combing  her  golden  hair ;  and,   through  this 

door 
The  Count,  her  lord,  was  hastening,  call'daway 
By  letters  of  great  urgency  to  Venice  ; 
When  in  the  glass  she  saw,  as  she  believed, 
('T  was  an  illusion  of  the  Evil  Spirit — 
Some  say  he  came  and  cross' d  it  at  the  instant) 
A  smile,  a  glance  at  parting,   given  and  an- 
swer'd. 
That  turn'd  her  blood  to  gall.     That  very  night 
The  deed  was  done.    That  night,  ere  yet  the 

Moon 
Was  up  on  Monte  Calvo,  and  the  wtlf 
Baying  as  still  he  does  (oft  do  I  hear  him. 


ITALY.  43 

An  hour  and  more  by  the  old  turret-clock), 
They  led  her  forth,  tlie  unhappy  lost  Cristina, 
Helping  her  down  in  iier  distress — to  die. 

"  No  blood  was  spilt .;  ao  instrument'  of  deatb 
Lurk'd — or  stood  forth,  declaring  its  bad  purpose; 
Nor  was  a  hair  of  her  unblemish'd  head 
Hurt  in  that  hour.   Fresh  as  a  flower  ungather'd, 
And  warm  with  life,  her  youthful  pulses  play- 
ing, 
She  was  wall'd  up  within  the  Castle  wall.  (10) 
The  wall  itself  was  hollow' d  to  receive  her; 
Then  closed  again,  and  done  to  line  and  rule. 
Would  you  descend  and  see  it  ? — '  T  is  far  down; 
And  many  a  stair  is  gone.     'T  is  in  a  vault 
Under  the  Chapel :  and  there  nightly  now, 
As  in  the  narrow  niche,  when  smooth  and  fair, 
And   as   though   nothing   had    been    done    cr 

thought  of, 
The  stone-wcrk  rose  before  her,  till  the  light 
Glimmer'd  and  went — there,  nightly,  atthathour 
(You  smile,  and  would  it  were  an  idle  tale  ! 
Would  we  could  say  so  !)  at  that  hour  she  stands 
Shuddering — her  eyes  uplifted,  and  her  hands 
Join'd  as  in  prayer  ;  then,  like  a  Blessed  Soul 
Bursting  the  tomb,  springs  forward,  and  away 
Flies  o'er  the  woods,  the  mountains.    Issuing 

forth,  (11) 
The  hunter  meets  her  in  his  hunting  track  ; 
The  shepherd  on  the  heath,  starting,  exclaims 
(For  still  she  bears  the  name  she  bore  of  old) 
"Tisthe  White  Lady'!" 


XI. 

VENICE. 

There  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea. 
The  sea  is  in  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  and  flowing  ;  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Chngs  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro. 
Lead  to  her  gates.     The  path  hes  o'er  the  Sea, 
Invisible ;  and  from  the  land  we  went, 
As  to  a  floating  City — steering  in, 
And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 
So  smoothly,  silently — by  many  a  dome 
Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 
The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky ; 
By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  splendour. 
Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant-kings  ; 
The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shatter'd 

them, 
Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art. 
As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 

Thither  I  came,  and  in  a  wondrous  Ark, 
(That,  long  before  we  slipt  our  cable,  rang 
As  with  the  voices  of  all  living  things) 
From  Padua,  where  the   stars  are,  night  by 

night, 
Watch' d  from  the  top  of  an  old  dungeon-tower. 
Whence  blood  ran  once,  the  tower  of  Ezze- 

Un— (12) 
Not  as  he  watch'd  them,  when  he  read  his  fate 
And  shudder'd.    But  of  him  I  thought  not  then, 


ITALT.  45 

Him  or  his  horoscope ;  far,  far  from  me 

The  forms  of  Guilt  and  Fear ;  thDugh  some 

were  there, 
Sitting  among  us  round  the  cabin-board, 
Some  who,  hkc  liim,  had  cried,  "  Spill  blood 

enough  !" 
And  could  shake  long  at  shadows.     They  had 

play'a 
Their  parts  a:  Padua,  and  were  now  returning ; 
A  vagrant  crew,  and  careless  of  to-morrow, 
Careless  and  full  of  mirth.    Who,  in  that  quaver, 
Sings  "  Caro,  Caro  ?" — 'T  is  the  Prima  Doima, 
And  to  her  monkey,  smiling  in  his  face, 
Who,  as  transported,  cries,  "  Brava  !  Ancora?" 
T  is  a  grave  personage,  an  old  macaw, 
Perch'd  on  her  shoulder.     But  mark  him  who 

leaps 
Ashore,  and  with  a  shout  urges  along 
The  lagging  mules  ;  (13)  then  runs  and  climbs  a 

tree 
That  with  its  branches  overhangs  the  stream, 
And,  like  an  acorn,  drops  on  deck  again. 
*  T  is  he  who  speaks  not,  stirs  not,  but  we  laugh ; 
That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino.(14) 
And  mark  their  Poet — with  what  emphasis 
He  prompts  the  young  Soubrette,  conning  her 

part ! 
Her  tongue  plays  truant,  and  he  raps  his  box, 
And  prompts  again  ;  for  ever  looking  round 
As  if  in  search  of  subjects  for  his  wit. 
His  satire  ;  and  as  often  whispering 
Things,  though  unheard,  not  unimaginabl« 


46  llALY. 

Had  I  thy  pencil,   Crabbe,  (when  thou  hatt 

done, — 
Late  may  it  be — it  will,  like  Prospero'a  staff, 
Be  buried  fifty  fathoms  in  the  earth), 
I  would  portray  the  Italian — Now  I  cannot. 
Subtle,  discerning,  eloquent,  the  slave 
Of  Love,  of  Hate,  for  ever  in  extremes; 
Gentle  when  unprovoked,  easily  won. 
But  quick  in  quarrel — through  a  thousand  shaaea 
His  spirit  flits,  chameleon-like  ;  and  mocks 
The  eye  of  the  observer. 

Gliding  on, 
At  length  we  leave  the  river  for  the  sea. 
At  length  a  voice  aloft  proclaims  "  Venezia!" 
And,  as  call'd  forth,  it  comes. 

A  few  in  fear, 
Flying  away  from  him  whose  boast  it  wtis,* 
That  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had 

trod, 
Gave  birth  to  Venice.    Like  the  water-fowl. 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean-waves  ; 
And,  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew  from  the  north,  the  south ;  where  they 

that  Game, 
Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  like  an  exhalatioii,  from  the  deep, 
A  vast  Metropolis,  with  glittering  spires, 
"With  theatres,  basilicas  adorn*d  ; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion, 
That  has  endured  the  longest  among  men. 

*Auila. 


ITALY.  47 

Arid  wlience  the  talisman,  by  which  she  rose, 
Towering?    'T  was  found  there  in  the  tarrem 

sea. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise  ;  and,  far  or  near, 
Who  met  not  the  Venetian  ?— now  in  Cairo; 
Ere  yet  the  Califa  came,  (15)  Ustening  to  hear 
Its  bells  approaching  from  the  Red- Sea  coast ; 
Now  on  the  Euxine,  on  the  Sea.  of  Azoph, 
In  converse  with  the  Persian,  with  the  Russ, 
The  Tartar  ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 
Pearls  from  the  gulf  of  Ormus,   gems  from 

Bagdad 
Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  hght  of  kive, 
From   Georgia,   from    Circassia.     Wandering 

round, 
When  in  the  rich  bazaar  he  saw    display' d, 
Treasures    from    miknown   climes,    away    he 

went, 
And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  ere-long 
From  the  well-head,  supplying  all  below  ; 
Making  the  Imperial  City  of  the  East, 
Herself,  his  tributary. 

If  we  turn 
To  the  black  forests  of  the  Rhine,  the  Danube, 
Where  o'er  each  narrow  glen  a  castle  hangs. 
And,  like  the  wolf  that  hunger'd  at  his  door, 
The  baron  lived  by  rapine — there  we  meet, 
In  Warlike  guise,  the  Caravan  from  Venice ; 
When  on  its  march,  now  lost  and  now  emerging. 
A  glittering  file,  the  trumpet  heard,  the  scou* 
Sent  and  recall' d — but  at  a  city-gate 
All  gaiety,  and  look'd  for  ere  it  comes  : 


iS  ITALY. 

Winning  its  way  with  all  that  can  attract, 
Cages,  whence  every  wild  cry  of  the  desert, 
Jugglers,    stage-dancers.     Well  might  Charl* 

main, 
And  his  brave  peers,  each  with  his  visor  up 
On  their  long  lances  lean  and  gaze  awhile, 
When  the  Venetian  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
The  Wonders  of  the  East !     Well  might  they 

then 
Sigh  for  new  Conquests ! 

Thus  did  Venice  rise 
Thus  flourish,  till  the  unwelcome  tidings  came 
That  in  the  Tagus  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  India,  from  the  region  of  the  Sun, 
Fragrant  with  spices — that  a  way  was  found, 
A  channel  open'd,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turn'd  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  and  at  last  she  fell, 
Fell  in  an  instant,  blotted  out  and  razed; 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  longest 
Of  the  Four  Kingdoms — who,  as  in  an  Ark, 
Had  floated  down,  amid  a  thousand  wrecks, 
Uninjured,  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New, 
From  the  last  trace  of  civilized  life — to  where 
Light  shone  again,  and  with  unclouded  splen- 
dour 

Though  many  an  age  in  the  mid-sea  She 
dwelt, 
From  her  retreat  calmly  contemplating 
The  changes  of  the  Earth,  herself  unchanged- 
Before  her  pass'd,  as  in  an  awful  dream. 


ITALY.  49 

The  migbtit  st  of  the  mighty.     What  are  these, 
Clothed  in  their  purple  ?     O'er  the  globe  they 

fling 
Their  monstrous  shadows ;  and,  while  yet  we 

speak, 
Phantom-liko,  vanish  with  a  dreadful  scream  ! 
What — but  the  last  that  styled  themselves  the 

Caesars  ? 
And  who   in    long   array   (look    where    they 

come  ; 
Their  gestures  menacing  so  far  and  wide) 
Wear  the  green  turban  and  the  heron's  plume  ? 
Who — but  the  Caliphs  ?  follow'd  fast  by  shapes 
As  new  and  strange — Emperor,  and  King,  and 

Czar, 
And  Soldan,  each,  with  a  gigantic  stride, 
Tram.pling  on  all  the  flourishing  works  of  peace 
To  make  his  greatness  greater,  and  inscribe 
His  name  in  blood — some,  men  of  steel,  steel- 
clad  ; 
Others,  nor  long,  alas,  the  interval. 
In  light  and  gay  attire,  with  brow  serene 
Wielding  Jove's  thunder,  scattering  sulphurous 

fire 
Mingled  with  darkness  ;  and,  among  the  rest, 
Lo,  one  by  one.  passing  continually. 
Those  who  assume  a  swav  beyond  them  all ; 
Men  grey  with  age,  each  in  a  triple  crown. 
And  in  his  tremulous  hands  grasping  the  keys 
That  can  alone,  as  he  would  signify, 
Unlock  Heaven's  gate. 

4 


.'>.»  n  ALY. 

XTI. 

LUIGI. 

He  who  if  on  his  travels  and  loves  ease, 
Ease  and  companionship,  should  hire  a  yout)!i, 
Such  as  thou  wert,  Luigi.     Thee  I  found, 
Playing  at  Mora  (16)  on  the  cabin-roof 
With  Pulcinella — crying,  as  in  wrath, 
"  Tre !  Quattro!  Cinque!" — 't  is  a  game  to 

strike 
Fire  from  the  coldest  heart.     What  then  frona 

thine 
And,  ere  the  twentieth  throw,  I  had  resolved, 
Won  by  thy  looks.     Thou  wert  an  honest  lad  ; 
Wert  generous,  grateful,  not  without  ambition. 
Had  it  depended  on  thy  will  and  pleasure. 
Thou  wouldst  have  numbered  in  thy  family 
At  least  six  Doges  and  twelve  Procurators.  (17) 
But  that  was  not  to  be.    In  thee  I  saw 
The  last  of  a  long  line  of  Carbonari, 
Who  in  their  forest,  for  three  hundred  years, 
Had  lived  and  laboured,  cutting,  charring  wood ; 
Discovering  where  they  were,  to  those  astray, 
By  the  re-echoing  stroke,  the  crash,  the  fall, 
Or  the  blue  wreath  that  travelled  slowly  up 
Into  the  sky.     Thy  nobler  destinies 
Led  thee  away  to  justle  in  the  crowd  ; 
And  there  I  found  thee — by  thy  own  prescrij^ 

tion 
Crossing  the  sea  to  try  once  more  a  change 
Of  air  and  diet,  landing  and  as  gaily. 


ITALY.  51 

Near  the  Dogana — on  the  Great  Canal, 
As  though  thou  knewest  where  to  dine  and 
sleep. 

First  did  thou  practise  patience  at  Bologna, 
Serving  behind  a  Cardinal's  gouty  chair, 
Laughing  at  jests  that  were  no  laughing  matter ; 
Then  teach  the  Art  to  others  in  Ferrara 
— At  the  Three  Moors — as   Guide,   as  Cice- 

rone — 
Dealing  out  largely  in  exchange  for  pence 
Thy  scraps  of  knowledge — through  the  grassy 

street 
Leading,  explaining — pointing  to  the  bars 
Of  Tasso's  dungeon,  and  the  Latin  verse, 
Graven  in  the  stone,  that  yet  denotes  the  door 
Of  Ariosto. 

]\Iany  a  year  is  gone 
Since  on  the  Rhine  we  parted ;  yet,  methinks, 
I  can  recall  thee  to  the  hfe,  Luigi ; 
In  our  long  journey  ever  by  my  side, 
O'er  rough  and  smooth,  o'er  apennine,  marem- 

ma; 
Thy  locks  jet-black,  and  clustering  round  a  face 
Open  as  day  and  full  of  manly  daring. 
Thou  hadst  a  hand,  a  heart  for  all  that  came, 
Herdsman  or  pedlar,  monk  or  muleteer  ; 
And  few  there  were,  that  met  thee  not  with 

smiles. 
Mishap  pass'd  o'er  thee  like  a  summer-cloud. 
Cares  thou  hadst  none  ;  and  they,  who  stood  to 

hear  thee, 


52  ITALY. 

Caught  the  infection  and  forgot  their  own. 

Nature  conceived  thee  in  her  merriest  mood, 

Her  happiest — not  a  speck  was  in  the  sky  ; 

And  at  thy  birth  the  cricket  chirp'd,  Luigi, 

Thine  a  perpetual  voice — at  every  turn 

A  larum  to  the  echo.    In  a  cUme, 

Where  all  the  world  was  gay,  thou  wert  iho 

gayest, 
And,  like  a  babe,  hush'd  only  by  thy  slumbers, 
Up  hill  and  down,  morning  and  noon  and  night, 
Singing  or  talking  ;  singing  to  thyself 
When  none  gave  ear,  but  to  the  hstener  talking. 

XIII. 

ST.  MARK'S  PLACE. 

Over  how  many  tracts,  vast,  measureless. 
Nothing  from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year, 
Passes,  save  now  and  then  a  cloud,  a  meteor, 
A  famish' d  eagle  ranging  for  his  prey  ;  , 

While  on  this  spot  of  earth,  the  work  of  man. 
How  much  has  been  transacted !     Emperors, 

Popes, 
Warriors,  from  far  and  wide,  laden  with  spoil, 
Landing,  have  here  perform'd  their  several  parts, 
Then  left  the  stage  to  others.     Not  a  stone 
In  the  broad  pavement,  but  to  him  who  has 
An  eye,  an  ear  for  the  Inanimate  World, 
Tells  of  Past  Ages. 

In  thrt  temple-porch    ., 
(The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains), Tl8) 
Did  Barbarossa  fling  his  manile  off. 


ITALY.  51 

And,  kneeling,  on  his  neck  receive  the  foot 
Of  the  proud  Pontiff  (19) — thus  at  last  consoled 
For  flight,  disguise,  and  many  an  aguish  shake 
On  his  stone  pillow.     In  that  temple-porch, 
Old  as  he  was,  so  near  his  hundredth  year. 
And  blind — his  eyes  put  out — did  Dandolo 
Stand  forth,  displaying  on  his  ducal  crown 
The  cross  just  then  assumed  at  the  high  altar. 
There  did  he  stand,  erect,  invincible, 
Though  wan  his  cheeks,  and  wet  with  many 

tears, 
For  in  his  prayers  he  had  been  weeping  much  ; 
And  now  the  pilgrims  and  the  people  wept 
With  admiration,  saying  in  their  hearts, 
"  Surely  those  aged  limbs  have  need  of  rest !" 
— There  did  he  stand,  with  his  old  armour  on. 
Ere,  gonfalon  in  hand,  that  stream' d  aloft, 
As  conscious  of  its  glorious  destiny, 
So  soon  to  float  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 
He  sail'd  away,  five  hundred  gallant  ships. 
Their  lofty  sides  hung  with  emblazon' d  shields, 
Following  his  track  to  Glory.    He  returned  not ; 
But  of  his  trophies  four  arrived  ere-long, 
Snatch' d  from  destruction — the  four  steeds  di- 
vine, 
That  strike  the  ground,  resounding  with  their 

feet, 
And  from  their  nostrils  snort  ethereal  flame 
Over  that  very  portal — in  the  place 
Where  in  an  after-time  Petrarch  was  seen 
Sitting  beside  the  Doge,  on  his  right  hand, 
Amid  the  ladies  of  the  court  of  Venice. 


54  ITALY. 

Their  beauty  shaded  from  the  se'kjrg  sun 
By  many-colour'd  hangings  :  while,  beneath, 
Knights  of  all  nations,  some  from  merry  En- 
gland, (20) 
Their  lances  in  th«  rest,  charged  for  the  prize. 

Here,  among  other  pageants,  and  how  oft 
It  came,  as  if  returning  to  console 
The  least,  instruct  the  greatest,  did  the  Doge, 
Himself,  go  round,  borne  through  the  gazing 

crowd. 
Once  in  a  chair  of  state,  once  on  his  bier. 
They  were  his  firs:  appearance,  and  his  last. 

The  sea,  that  emblem  of  uncertainty. 
Changed  not  so  fast  for  many  and  many  an  age, 
As   this   small   spot.     To-day    't   was  full  of 

maskers ; 
And  lo,  the  madness  of  the  Carnival,  (21) 
The  monk,  the  nun,  the  holy  legate  mask'd  ! 
To-morrow  came  the  scaftbld  and  the  heads- 
man ; 
And  he  died  there  by  torch-light,  bound  and 

gagg'd. 
Whose  name  and  crime  they  knew  not-     Ud' 

derneath 
Where  the  Archangel  turning  with  the  wind, 
Blesses  the  City  from  the  topmost-tower, 
His  arms  extended — there  continually 
Two  phantom-shapes  were  sitting,  side  by  side, 
Or  up,  and,  as  in  sport,  chasing  each  other; 
Horror  and  Mirth.     Btth  vanisb'd  in  one  houi ! 


ITALY.  55 

But  Ocean  only,  when  again  he  claims 

His  ancient  rule,  shall  wash  away  their  foot3teps. 

Enter  the  Palace  by  the  marble  stairs* 
Down  which  the  grizzly  head  ot  old  Fahen) 
Roll'd  from   the  block.     Pass  onward  through 

the  Chamber, 
Where,  among  all  drawn  in  their  ducal  robes, 
But  one  is  wanting — where,  thrown  oif  in  heat, 
A  short  inscription  on  the  Doge's  chair 
Led  to  another  on  the  wall  yet  shorter ; 
And  thou  will  track  them — wilt  from  halls  of 

state 
Where  kings  have  feasted,  and  the  festal  song 
Rung  through  the  fretted  roof,  cedar  and  gold, 
Step  into  darkness  ;  and  be  told,  "  'T  was  here, 
Trusting,  deceived,  assembled  but  to  die, 
To  take  a  long  embrace  and  part  again, 
Carrara  and  his  valient  sons  were  strangled; 
He  first — then  they,  whose  only  crime  had  been 
Struggling  to  save  their  Father. — Through  that 

door 
So  soon  to  cry,  smiting  his  brow,  "  I  'm  lost !" 
Was  shown,  and  with  all  courtesy,  all  honour. 
The  great  and  noble  captain,  Carmagnola. — 
That  deep  descent  (thou  canst  not  yet  discern 
Aught  as  it  is)  leads  to  the  dripping  vaults 
Under  the  flood,  where  light  and  warmth  came 

never ! 
Leads  to  a  cover'd  Bridge,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
And  to  that  fatal  closet  at  the  foot, 

*  Scala  d3'  Gigaati. 


56  ITALY. 

Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  enter' d. 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span  ; 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life. — But  let  us  to  the  roof, 
And,  when  thou  hast  survey' d  the  sea,  the  land, 
Visit  the  narrow  cells  that  cluster  there, 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs.    They  had  their  tenants, 
And  each  supplied  with  sufferings  of  his  own. 
There  burning  suns  beat  unrelentingly, 
Turning  all  things  to  dust,  and  scorching  up 
The  brain,  till  Reason  fled,  and  the  wild  yell 
And  wilder  laugh  burst  out  on  every  side, 
Answering  each  other  as  in  mockery  ! 
—Few  Houses  of  the  size  were  better  fiU'd; 
Though  many  came  and  left  it  in  an  hour. 
"  Most  nights,"  so  said  the  good  old  Nicolo 
(For  three-and-thirty  year?  his  uncle  kept 
The  water-gate  below,  but  seldom  spoke, 
Though  much  was  on  his  mind),  "  most  nights 

arrived 
The  prison-boat,  that  boat  vrith  many  oars, 
And  bore  away  as  to  the  Lower  World, 
Disburdening  in  the  Canal  Orfano,  (22) 
That  drowning-place,    where   never   net   was 

thrown, 
Summer  or  Winter,  death  the  penalty  ; 
And  where  a  secret,  once  deposited. 
Lay  till  the  waters  should  give  up  their  dead." 

Yet  what  so  gay  as  Venice  ?     Every  gale 
Breathed  heavenly  music  !  and  who  flock 'd  not 
thither 


ITALY.  57 

To  celebrate  her  Nuptials  with  the  Sea  ? 
To  wear  the  mask,  and  mingle  in  the  crowd 
With  Greek,  Armenian,    Persian — night  and 

day 
(There,  and  there  only,  did  the  hour  standstill) 
Pursuing  through  her  thousand  labyrinths 
The  Enchantress  Pleasure  ;  realizing  dreams 
The  earliest,  happiest — for  a  tale  to  catch 
/Credulous  ears,  and  hold  young  hearts  in  chains, 
Had  only  to  begin,  "  There  lived  in  Venice."— 

"  Who  were  the  Six  we  supp'd  with  yester- 
night ?" 

"Kings,  one  and  all!  Thou  couldst  not  but 
remark 

The  style  and  manner  of  the  Six  that  served 
them." 

"  Who  answer' d  me  just  now  ?  Who,  when 
I  said, 

*  'T  is  nine,'  turn'd  round  and  said  so  solemnly, 
'  Signor,   he  died  at  nine!'" — " 'T  was  tha 

Armenian ; 
The  mask  that  follows  thee,  go  where  thou 
v/ilt." 

"But  who  stands  there,  alone  among  them 
all?" 

*  The  Cypriot.     Ministers  from  foreign  courts 
Beset  his  doors,  long  ere  his  hour  of  rising ; 
His  the  Great  Secret  I     Not  the  golden  hou.se 
Of  Nero,  or  those  fabled  in  the  East. 


38  ITALY. 

As  wrought  by  magic,  half  so  rich  as  his  ! 
Two  dogs,  coal-bhick,  in  collars  of  pure  gold, 
Walk  in  his  footsteps — Who  but  his  familiars  I 
He  casts  no  shadow,  nor  is  seen  to  smile  !" 

Such    their    discourse.     Assembling    in    St. 

Mark's, 
All  Nations  met  as  on  enchanted  ground ! 

What  though  a  strange,  mysterious  Power 

was  there, 
Moving  throughout,  subtle,  invisible, 
And  universal  as  the  air  they  breathed  ; 
A  Power  that  never  slumber'd,  never  pardon'd. 
All  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everywhere,  (23) 
Entering  the  closet  and  the  sanctuary, 
No  place  of  refuge  for  the  Doge  himself; 
Most  present  when  least  thought  of — nothing 

dropt 
In  secret,  when  the  heart  was  on  the  lips, 
Nothing  in  feverish  sleep,  but  instantly 
Observed   and  judged — a  Power,   that  if  but 

glanced  at 
In  casual  converse,  be  it  where  it  might. 
The  speaker  lower'd  at  once  his  eyes,  his  voice, 
And  pointed  upward,  as  to  God  in  Heaven — 
What  though  that  Power  was  there,  he  who 

lived  thus. 
Pursuing  Pleasure,  lived  as  if  it  were  not, 
But  let  him  in  the  midnight -air  indulge 
A  word,  a  thought  against  the  laws  of  Venice, 
And  m  that  hov  r  he  vanish' d  from  the  earth  ! 


ITALY.  59 

XIV. 

THE  GONDOLA. 

Boy,  call  the  Gondola  ;  the  sun  is  set. 
It  came,  and  we  embark'd  ;  but  instantly, 
Though  she  had  stept  on  bo:ird  so  light  of  foot 
So  light  of  heart,  laughing  she  knew  not  why, 
Sleep  overcame  her ;  on  my  arm  she  slept. 
From  time  to  time  I  waked  her  ;  but  the  boat 
Rock'd  her  to  sleep  again. 

The  moon  was  up, 
But  broken  by  a  cloud.    The  wind  was  hush'd, 
And  the  sea  mirror-hke.     A  single  zephyr 
Play'd  with  her  tresses,  and  drew  more  and 

more 
Her  veil  across  her  bosom. 

Long  I  lay 
Contemplating  that  face  so  beautiful. 
That  rosy   mouth,   that    cheek   dimpled  with 

smiles, 
That  neck  but  half-concealed,  whiter  than  snow. 
'T  was  the  sweet  slumber  of  her  early  age. 
I  look'd  and  look'd,  and  ielt  a  flush  of  joy 
I  would  express,  but  cannot. 

Oft  I  wish'd 
Gently — by  stealth — to  drop  asleep  myself. 
And  to  incline  yet  lower  that  sleep  might  come  ; 
Oft  closed  my  eyes  as  in  forgetfulness. 
T  was  all  in  vain.    Love  v,  ould  not  let  me  rest. 

But  how  delightful  when  at  length  she  waked . 
When,  her  light  hair  adju^-iing,  and  her  veil 


60  ITALY. 

So  rudely  scatter'd,  she  resumed  her  place 
Beside  me  ;  and,  as  gaily  as  before, 
Sitting  unconscio  js'.y  nearer  and  nearer, 
Pour'd  out  her  innocent  mind  ! 

So,  nor  long  since 
Sung  a  Venetian  :  and  his  lay  of  love, 
Dangerous  and  sweet,    charm'd   Venice.    Aa 

for  me  . 

(Less  fortunate,  if  Love  be  Happiness) 
No  curtain  drawn,  no  pulse  beating  alarm, 
1  went  alone  under  the  silent  moon ; 
Thy  place,  St.  Pvlark,  thy  churches,  palaces, 
Glittering,  and  frost-like,  and  as  day  drew  on, 
Melting  away,  an  emblem  of  themselves. 

Those    porches    pass'd    through   which  tha 
water-breeze 
Plays,  though  no  longer  on  the  noble  forms 
That  moved  there,  sable-vested — and  the  Quay, 
Silent,  grass-grown — adventurer-like  Ilaunch'd 
Into  the  deep,  ere-long  discovering 
Isles  such  as  cluster  in  the  Southern  seas, 
All  verdure.  Everywhere,  from  bush  and  brake, 
The  musky  odour  of  the  serpents  came ; 
Their  shmy  track  across  the  woodman's  path 
Bright  in  the  moonshine  :  and,  as  round  I  went, 
Dreaming  of  Greece,  whither  the  waves  were 

gliding, 
I  listen' d  to  the  venerable  pines 
Then  in  close  converse  ;  and,  if  right  I  guess' d. 
Delivering  many  a  message  to  the  Winds 
In  secret,  for  iheir  kindred  on  Mount  Ida. 


ITALY.  61 

Nor  when  again  in  Venico,  when  again 
In  that  strange  place,  so  stirring  and  so  still, 
Where   nothing  conies  to   drown  the  human 

voice 
But  music,  or  the  dashing  of  the  tide, 
Ceased  I  to  wander.     Now  a  Jessica 
Sung  to  her  lute,  her  signal  as  she  sate 
At  her  half-open  window.     Then,  methought, 
A  serenade  broke  silence,  breathing  hope 
Through  walls  of  stone,  and  torturing  the  proud 

heart 
Of  some  Priuli.     Once,  we  could  not  err, 
(It  was  before  an  old  Palladian  house, 
As  between  night  and  day  we  floated  by), 
A  Gondoher  lay  singing  ;  and  he  sung 
As  in  the  time  when  Venice  was  herself,  (24) 
Of  Tancrf  d  and  Erminia.     On  our  oars 
We  rested  ;  and  the  verse  was  verse  divine  ! 
We  could  not  err — Perhaps  he  was  the  last — 
For  none  took  up  the  strain,  none  answer'd  him  ; 
And  when  he  ceased,  he  left  upon  my  ear 
A  something  like  the  dying  voice  of  Venice. 

The  moon  went  down  ;  and  nothing  now  was 

seen 
Save  here  and  there  the  lamp  of  a  Madonna, 
Glimmering — or   heard,  but  when  he  spoke, 

who  stood 
Over  the  lantern  at  the  prow,  and  cried. 
Turning  the  corner  of  some  reverend  pile, 
Some  s^.hool  or  hospital  of  old  renown, 


62  ITALY. 

Though  haply  none  were  coming,  none  were 

near, 
*•  Hasten  or  slacken."  * 

But  at  length  Night  fled ; 
And  with  her  fled,  scattering,  the  sons  of  Plea- 
sure. 
Star  after  star  shot  by,  or,  meteor-like, 
Cross'd  me  and  vanish'd — lost  at  once  among 
Those  hundred  Isles  that  tower  majestically, 
That  rise  abruptly  from  the  water-mark. 
Not  with  rough  crag   but  marble,  and  the  work 
Of  noblest  architect.^!.     T  linger'd  still ; 
Nor  struck  my  threshold,  till  the  hour  was  come 
And  past,  when,  flitting  home  in  the  grey  light, 
The  young  Bianca  found  her  father's  door,  (25) 
That  door  so  often  vviih  a  trembling  hand, 
So  often — then  so  lately  left  ajar, 
Shut ;  and,  all  terror,  all  perplexity. 
Now  by  her  lover  urged,  now  by  her  love, 
Fled  o'er  the  waters  to  return  no  more. 

XV. 
THE  BRIDES  Ot   VENICE. 

It  was  St.  Mary's  Eve,  and  all  pour'd  forth 
A-S  to  some  grand  solemnity.     The  fisher 
Came  from  his  islet,  bringing  o'er  the  waves 
His  wife  and  little  one  ;  the  husbandman 
From  the  Firm  Land,  along  the  Po,  the  Brenta, 
Crowding  tVe  common  ferry.    AH  arrived; 

♦  Fremi  o  sta. 


ITALY.  63 

And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turn'd  and  Usten'd, 
So  great  the  stir  in  Venice.     Old  and  yoking 
Throng' d  her  three  hundred  bridges;  the  grave 

Turk, 
Turban' d,  long-vested,  and  the  cozening  Jew, 
In  yellow  hat  and  threadbare  gaberdine, 
Hurrying  along.     For,  as  the  custom  was, 
The  noblest  sons  and  daughters  of  the  State, 
They  of  Patrician  birth,  the  flower  of  Venice, 
Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Book  of  Gold, 
Were  on  that  day  to  solemnize  their  nuptials. 

At  noon,    a  distant    murmur    through    ths 
cro.vd, 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  announced  their  coming; 
And  never  from  the  lirst  was  to  be  seen 
Such  splendour  or  such  beauty.     Two  and  two 
(The  richest  tapestry  unroll' d  before  them). 
First  came  the  Brides  in  all  their  loveliness ; 
Each  in  her  veil,  and  oy  two  bride-maids  fol 

low'd. 
Only  less  lovely,  who  behind  her  bore 
The  precious  caskets  that  within  contain' d 
The  dowry  and  the  presents.     On  she  moved. 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
A  fan,  that  gently  waved,  of  ostrich-feathers. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer, 
Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem  ; 
And  on  her  aazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone. 
Ruby  or  diamond  or  dark  amethyst ; 
A  jevrell'd  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath, 
Wreathing  her  gold  brocade 


Oi  ITALY. 

LeJore  the  Church, 
That  venerable  Pile  on  the  oea-brink, 
Another  train  they  met,  no  strangers  to  theiP, 
Brothers  to  some,  and  to  the  rest  still  dearer  * 
Each  in  his  hand  bearing  his  can  and  plume, 
And,  as  he  walk'd,  with  modest  dignitj 
Folding  his  scarlet  mantle,  liis  tabarro. 

They  join,  they  enter  in,  and.  up  the  aisle 
Led  by  the   full- voiced  choii  in  bright  provCv- 

sion, 
Range  round  the  altar.   In  iii?  vestments  there 
The  Patriarch  stands :  and,  while  the  anthen*. 

flows, 
Who  cai.  lock  on  unmoved  ? — mothers  in  secret 
Rejoicinp;  in  the  beauty  of  their  daughters. 
Sons  in  tbo  thought  of  uiaking  them  their  own ; 
And  they — array'd  in  youth  and  innocence, 
Their  beauty   heighten' d  by  their  hopes  an'^ 

fears. 

At  length  the  rite  is  ending.     All  fall  down 
1.1  earnest  prayer,  all  of  all  ranks  together ; 
And,  stretching  out  his  hands,  the  holy  man 
Proceeds  to  give  the  general  benediction ; 
When  hark,  a  din  of  voices  from  without 
And  shrieks  and  groans  and  outcries  as  in  bat*I« 
And  lo,  the  door  is  burst,  the  curtain  rent, 
And  armed  ruffians,  robbers  from  the  deep, 
lavage,  uncouth,  led  on  by  Barbarigo, 
And  his  six  brothers  in  their  coats  of  steel, 
Are  standing  on  the  threshold  !     Statue-like, 


rrALT.  65 

Awhile  they  gaze  on  the  fallen  rnuhitude, 
Each  with  his  sabre  up,  in  act  to  strike  ; 
Then,  as  at  onoe  recovering  from  the  spell, 
Rush  forward  to  the  altar,  and  as  soon 
Are  gone  again — amid  no  clash  of  arms 
Bearing  away  the  maidens  and  the  treasures. 

Where  are  they  now  ? — ^plowing  the  distant 

waves 
Their  sails  all  set,  and  they  upon  the  deck 
Standing  triumphant.     To  the  east  they  go, 
Steering  for  Istria ;  their  accursed  barks 
(Well  are   they   known,    the   galliot   and  the 

galley), 
Freighted  with  all  that  gives  to  life  its  value  I 
The  richest  argosies  were  poor  to  them  I 

Now  might  you  see  the  matrons  running  wild 
Along   the   beach  ;    the   men  half-arm' d  and 

arming, 
One  with  a  shield,  one  with  a  casque  and  spear 
One  with  an  axe  hewing  the  mooring-chain 
Of  some  old  pinnace.     Not  a  raft,  a  plank, 
But  on  that  day  was  drifting.     In  an  hour 
Half  Venice  was  afloat.     But  long  before. 
Frantic  with  grief  and  scorning  all  control, 
The  youths  were  gone  in  a  light  brigantine, 
Lying  at  anchor  near  the  Arsenal ; 
Each  having  sworn,  and  by  the  holy  rood. 
To  slay  or  to  be  slain. 

And  from  the  tower 
The  watchman  gives  the  signal.     In  the  East 
5 


66  rrALY. 

A  ship  is  seen,  and  making  for  the  Port ; 

Her  flag  St.  Mark's. — And  now  she  turns  thd 

point, 
Over  the  waters  like  a  sea-bird  flying  ! 
Ha,  't  is  the  same,  't  is  theirs !  from  stern  to 

prow 
Hung  with  green  boughs,  she  comes,  she  comes, 

restoring 
All  that  was  lost. 

Coasting,  with  narrow  search, 
Friuli — like  a  tiger  in  his  spring, 
They  had  surprised  the  Corsairs  where  they  lay 
Sharing  the  spoil  in  blind  security 
^nd  casting  lots — had  slain  them,  one  and  all, 
All  to  the  last,  and  flung  them  far  and  wide 
Into  the  sea,  their  proper  element ; 
Him  first,  as  first  in  rank,  whose  name  so  long 
Had  hush'd  the  babes  of  Venice,  and  who  yet, 
Breathing  a  little,  in  his  look  refain'd 
The  fierceness  of  his  soul. 

Thus  were  the  Brides 
Lost  and  recover'd  ;  and  what  now  remain'd 
But  to  give  thanks  ?     Twelve  breast  plates  and 

twelve  crowns, 
Flaming  with  gems  and  gold,  the  votive  ofier- 

ings 
Of  the  young  victors  to  their  Patron-Saint, 
Vow'd  on  the  field  of  battle,  were  ere-long 
Laid  at  his  feet ;  (2G)  and  to  preserve  for  ever 
The  memory  of  a  day  so  full  of  change, 
^rom  joy  to  grief,  from  grief  to  joy  again, 
''hrough  many  an  cge,  as  o^'t  as  it  came  round, 


ITALY.  67 

*T  was  held  religiously  with  all  observance. 
The  Doge  resigii'd  his  crimson  for  pure  ermine; 
And  through  the  city  in  a  stately  barge 
Of  gold,  were  borne,  with  songs  and  sympho- 
nies, 
Twelve  ladies  young  and  noble.     Clad  they 

were 
In  bridal  white  with  bridal  ornaments, 
Each  in  her  glittering  veil ;  and  on  the  deck, 
As  on  a  burnish' d  throne,  they  glided  by  ; 
No  window  or  balcony  but  adorn'd 
With  hangings  of  rich  texture,  not  a  roof 
But  cover'd  with  beholders,  and  the  air 
Vocal  with  joy.     Onward  ihey  went,  their  oars 
Moving  in  concert  with  the  harmony, 
Through  the  Rialtoto  the  Ducal  Palace, 
And  at  a  banquet  there,  served  with  due  honouTi 
Sate  representing,  in  the  eyes  of  all. 
Eyes  not  unwet,  I  ween,  with  grateful  tears, 
Their  lovely  ancestors,  the  Brides  of  Venice. 

XVL 

FOSCARI. 

Let  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observn, 
What  passes  in  that  chamber.    Now  a  iigb, 
And  now  a  groan,  is  heard.     Then  all  is  still. 
Twenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there  ; 
Men  who  have  served  their  country,  and  grown 

grey 
In  governments  and  distant  embassies, 
Men  eraiiv^nt  alike  in  war  and  peace  ; 


68  ITALY. 

Such  as  in  c/iigy  shall  long  adorn 

The  walls  ol   Venice-"— to  show  what  she  hsM 

been ! 
Their  garb  is  black,  and  black  the  arras  is, 
And  sad  the  general  aspect.     Yet  their  looks 
Are  calm,  are  cheerful ;  nothing  there  like  grief, 
Nothing  or  harsh  or  cruel.     Siill  that  noise. 
That  low  and  dismal  moaning. 

Half  withdrawn, 
A  little  to  the  left,  sits  one  in  crimson, 
A  venerable  man,  fourscore  and  upward. 
Cold  drops  of  sweat  stand  on  his  furrow'd  brow. 
His  hands  are  ciench'd;  his  eyes  half-shut  and 

glazed ; 
His  shrunk  and  wither' d  limbs  rigid  as  marble. 
'T  is  Foscari,  the  Doge.     And  there  is  one, 
A  young  man,  lying  at  his  feet,  stretch'd  out 
In  torture.     'T  is  his  son;  his  only  one  ; 
'T  is  Giacomo,  the  blessing  of  his  age, 
(Say,  has  he  lived  f(jr  this  ?)  accused  of  murder, 
The  murder  of  the  Senator  Donato. 
Last  night  the  proofs,  if  proofs  they  are,  were 

dropt 
Into  the  lion's  mouth,  the  mouth  of  brass, 
That  gapes  and  gorges  ;  and  the  Doge  himself 
Must  sit  and  look  on  a  beloved  Son 
Suflering  the  Question. 

Twice,  to  die  in  peace 
To  save  a  falling  house,  and  turn  the  hearts 
Of  his  fell  Adversaries,  those  who  now, 
Like  hell-hounds  in  full  cry,  are  running  dow» 
Hid  last  of  four,  twice  did  he  ask  their  leave 


ITALY.  69 

To  lay  aside  the  Crown,  and  they  refused  him, 

An  oath  exacting,  never  more  to  ask  it ; 

And  there  he  sits,  a  spectacle  of  woo, 

By  them,  his  rivals  in  the  State,  compell'd, 

Such  the  refinement  of  their  cruelty, 

To  keep  the  place  he  sigh'd  for. 

Once  again 
The  screw  is  turn'd;  and,  as  it  turns,  the  Son 
Looks  up,  and,  in  a  faint  and  broken  accent, 
Murmurs  ' '  My  Father ! "    The  old  man  shrinks 

back 
And  in  his  mantle  muffles  up  his  face. 
''  Art  thou  not  guilty  ?"  says  a  voice,  that  once 
Would  greet  the  Sufferer  long  before  they  met 
And  on  his  ear  strike  like  a  pleasant  music — 
"Art  thou  not  guilty?" — "No!  Indeed  I  am 

not!" 
But  all  is  unavailing.     In  that  Court 
Groans  are  confessions  ;  Patience,  Fortitude, 
The  work  of  Magic  ;  and,  released,  upheld, 
For  Condemnation,  from  his  Father's  lips 
He  hears  the  sentence,  "  Banishment  to  Candia: 
Death,  if  he  leaves  it." 

And  the  bark  sets  sail ; 
And  he  is  gone  from  all  he  loves — for  ever ! 
His  wife,  his  boys,  and  his  disconsolate  parents  ! 
Gone  in  the  dead  of  night — unseen  of  any — 
Without  a  word,  a  look  of  tenderness, 
To  be  call'd  up,  vi^hen,  in  his  lonely  hours 
He  would  indulge  in  veeping. 

Like  a  ghosts 
Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  haunts 


<U  ITALY - 

An  ancient  ra;npart,  that  o'erhangs  the  sea; 
Gazing  on  vacancy,  and  hourly  starting 

To  answer  to  the  watch Alas,  how  changed 

From  him,  the  mirror  of  the  Youth  of  Venice, 
In  whom  the  slightest  thing,  or  whim  or  chance, 
Did  he  but  wear  his  doublet  so  and  so, 
All  follow' d  ;  at  whose  nuptials,  when  at  len^h 
He  won  that  maid  at  once  the  fairest,  noblest,  (27) 
A  daughter  of  the  House  of  Contarini, 
That  House  as  old  as  Venice,  now  among 
Its  ancestors  in  monumental  iDrass 
Numbering  eight  Doges — to  convey  her  home, 
The  Bucentaur  went  forth  ;  and  thrice  the  Sun 
Shone  on  the  Chivalry,  that,  front  to  front, 
And  blaze  on  blaze  reflecting,  met  and  ranged 
To  tournay  in  St.  Mark's. 

But  lo,  at  last, 
Messengers  come.    He  is  recall'd  :  his  heart 
Leaps  at  the  tidings.     He  embarks  ;  the  boat 
Springs  to  the  oar,  and  back  again  he  goes — 
Into  that   very  Chamber  !  there  to  lie 
In  his  old  resting-place,  the  bed  of  torture  ; 
And  thence  look  up  (five  long,   long  years  of 

Grief 
Have  not  killed  either)  on  his  wretched  Siro, 
Still  in  that  seat — as  though  he  had  not  left  it, 
Immovable,  enveloped  in  his  mantle. 

But  now  he  comes,  convicted  of  a  crime 
Great  by  the  laws  of  Venice.     Night  and  day, 
Brooding  on  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was, 
'T  was  more  than  he  could  bear.   His  longing  fits 


Tliicken'd  upon  him.    His  desire  fot  hoifle 

Became  a  madness  ;  and,  resolved  to  go. 

If  but  to  die,  in  his  despair  he  writeis 

A  letter  to  Francesco,  Duke  of  3Iilari, 

*i'oliciting  his  influence  with  the  State, 

And  drops  it  to  be  found. — "  Would  ye  know 

all? 
I  have  transgress' d,  offended  wilfully  ;  (23) 
And  am  prepared  to  suiTer  as  1  ought. 
B.ut  let  me,  let  me,  if  but  for  an  instant 
(Ye  must  consent — for  all  of  you  are  sons, 
Mast  of  you  husbands,  fatLers),  let  me  first 
Indulge  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man, 
And,  erB  I  die,  if  such  my  sentence  be, 
Press  to  my  heart  ('t  is  all  I  ask  of  you) 
My  wife,  my  children — and  iny  aged  mother- 
Say,  is  she  yet  ahve  I" 

He  is  coridemn'd 
To  go  ere  set  of  sun,  go  whence  he  came, 
A  banish' d  man — and  for  a  year  to  breathe 
The  vapour  of  a  dungeon. — But  his  prayer 
(What  could  they  less  I)  is  granted. 

In  a  hall 
Open  and  crowded  by  the  common  rabble, 
'T  was  there  a  trembling  Wife  and  lier  four  Sons 
Yet  young,  a  Mother,  borne  along,  bedridden. 
And  an  old  Doge,  mustering  up  ail  his  strength, 
That  strength  how  small  I  assembled  now  to 

meet 
One  so  long  lost,  longmourn'd,  one  who  for  them 
Had  braved  so  much — death,  and  vet  worse  than 

death — 


72  ITALT. 

To  meet  him,  and  to  part  with  him  for  ever  J 

Time  and  their  heavy  wrongs  had  cliangwl 

them  all ; 
Him  most  1    Yet  when  the  Wife,  the  Mother 

look'd 
Again,  't  was  he  himself,  't  was  Giacomo, 
Their  only  hope,  and  trust,  and  consolation! 
And  all  clung  round  him,  weeping  bitterly; 
Weeping  the  more,  because  they  wept  in  vain, 

Urmerved,  unsettled  in  his  mind  from  long 
And  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  aloud  and  cries 
Kissing  the  old  man"s  cheek,  "  Help  me,  my 

Father ! 
Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  you : 
Let  me  go  home." — "'My  Son,"  returns  the 

Doge, 
Mastering  awhile  his  grief,  "  if  I  may  still 
Call  thee  my  Son,  if  thou  art  innocent, 
As  I  would  fain  believe,"  but,  as  he  speaks^ 
He  falls,  "  submit  without  a  murmur." 

Night, 
That  to  the  World  brought  revelry,  to  them. 
Brought  only  food  for  sorrow.     Giacomo 
Embark' d — to  die  ;  sent  to  an  early  grave 
For  thee,  Erizzo,  whose  death-bed  confession, 
"  He  is  most  irmocent  1    'T  was  I  who  did  it  !'^ 
Came  when  he  slept  in  peace.     The  ship,  that 

sail'd 
Swift  as  the  winds  with  his  recall  to  Honour, 
Bore  back  a  lii  Uess  corse.     Geaerons  as  brav(i 


ITALY.  7fi 

Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  oftkes 
Of  love  and  duty,  were  to  him  as  needful 
As  was  his  daily  bread  ; — and  to  become 
A  byword  in  the  meanest  mou'.hs  of  Venice, 
Bringing  a  stain  on  those  who  gave  him  life, 
On  those,  alas,  now  worse  than  fatherless — 
To  be  proclaim' d  a  ruffian,  a  night-stabber, 
He   on  whom  none   before  had  breathed  re- 
proach— 
He  lived  but  to  disprove  it.     That  hope  bst, 
Death  follow' d.     From  the  hour  he  went,  ha 

spoke  not ; 
And  in  his  dungeon,  when  he  laid  him  down. 
He  sunk  to  rise  no  more.     Oh,  if  there  be 
Justice  in  Pleaven,  and  we  are  assured  there  is, 
A  day  must  come  of  ample  Retribution  ! 

Then  was  thy  cup,  old  ^laa,  full  to  o'ertlowing. 
But  thou  wert  yet  alive  ;  and  there  was  one, 
The  soul  and  spring  of  all  that  Enmity, 
Who  would  not  leave  thee ;  fastening  on  thy 

flank. 
Hungering  and  tliirsting,  still  unsatisfied  ; 
One  of  a  name  illustrious  as  thine  own  ! 
One  of  the  Ten  I  one  of  the  Invisible  Three  !  (29) 
T  was  Loredano. 

When  the  whelps  were  gone 
He  would  dislodge  the  Lion  from  his  den ; 
And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led, 
The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howl'd 
Against  fallen  Greatness,  moved  that  Foscari 
Be  Doge  no  longer ;    arg  ng  his  great  age, 


His  incapacity  anJ  nothingness  ; 

Calling  a  Father's  sorrows  in  his  chamber 

Neglect  of  duty,  anger,  contumacy. 

"  I  am  most  willing  to  retire,"  said  Foscari: 

"  But  I  have  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself 

Do  with  me  as  ye  please." 

He  was  deposed, 
He,  who  had  reign' d  so  long  and  gloriously  ; 
His  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow, 
His  robes  stript  ofl",  his  ring,  that  ancient  symbol, 
Broken  before  him.     But  now  nothing  moved 
The  meekness  of  his  soul.     All  things  alike  ! 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree, 
Foscari  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 
His  name.     "  I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memrno." 
"  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  thy  father  was  my  friend." 

And  now  he  goes.     "It  is  the  hour  and  past. 
I  have  no  business  here." — "  But  wilt  thou  not 
Avoid  the  gazing  crowd  ?    That  way  is  private." 
''  No  !  as  I  enter' d,  so  will  I  retire." 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff,  he  left  the  Palace, 
His  residence  for  four-and- thirty  years. 
By  the  same  staircase  he  came  up  in  splendour, 
The  staircase  of  the  Giants.     Turning  round, 
When  in  the  court  below,  he  stopt  and  said 
'■'  My  merits  brought  me  hither.     I  depart, 
Driven  by  the  malice  of  my  Enemies." 
Then  through  the  crowed  withdrew,  poor  as  no 

came 
And  in  his  gondola  went  off,  unfollow'd 
Sut  b/  the  sighs  of  them  that  reared  not  speak. 


ITALV.  74 

This  journey  was  his  last.     When  the  bell 
rang 
Next  day,  announcing  a  new  Doge  to  Venice, 
It  found  iiim  on  his  knees  before  the  ahar, 
Clasping  his  aged  hands  in  earnest  prayer  ; 
And  there  he  died.     Ere  half  its  task  was  done, 
.It  rang  his  knell. 

But  whence  the  deadly  uoie 
That  caused  all  this — the  hate  of  Loredano  ? 
It  was  a  legacy  his  Father  [eft  him, 
Who,  but  for  Foscari,  had  reign'd  in  Venice, 
And,  like  the  venom  in  the  serpent's  bag, 
Gather'd  and  grew  I     Nothing  but  turn'd  to 

venom  ! 
In  vain  did  Foscari  sue  tor  peace,  for  friendship, 
Offering  in  marraige  his  fair  Isabel. 
He  changed  not ;  with  a  dreadful  piety, 
Studying  revenge !  listening  alone  to  those 
Who  talk'd  of  vengeance  ;  grasping  by  the  hand 
Those  in  their  zeal  (and  none,  alas,  were  want- 
ing) 
Who  came  to  tell  him  of  another  Wrong, 
Done  or  imagined.     When  his  father  died, 
'T  was  whisper'd  in  his  ear,    "He   died  by 

poison  1" 
He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb  ('t  is  there  in  marble) 
And    in    his    ledger-book — among    his   debt 

ors — 
Enter'd  the  name  "  Fkancesco  Foscari," 
And  added,  "  For  the  murder  of  my  Father.'* 
Leaving  a  blank — to  be  till'd  up  hereafter. 
When  Foscari' s  noble  heart  at  length  gave  way, 


76  ITALY. 

He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  again 
Calmly,  and  with  his  pen  fiU'd  up  the  blank, 
Inscribing,  "  Pie  has  paid  me." 

Ye  who  sit, 
Brooding  from  day  to  day,  from  day  to  day 
Chewing  the  bitter  cud,  and  starting  up 
As  though  the  hour  was  come  to  whet  your 

fangs, 
And,  like  the  Pisan,*  gnaw  the  hairy  scalp 
Of  him  who  had  offended — if  ye  must, 
Sit  and  brood  on  ;  but  oh  !  forbear  to  teach 
The  lesson  to  your  children. 

XVII. 

ARQUA. 

Theke  is,  within  three  leagues  and  less  of 
Padua 
(The  Paduan  student  knows  it,  honours  it), 
A  lonely  tomb-stone  in  a" mountain-churchyard , 
And  I  arrived  there  as  the  sun  declined 
Low  in  the  west.     The  gentle  airs,  that  breathe 
Fragrance  at  eve,  were  rising,  and  the  birds 
Singing  their  farewell  song — the  very  song 
They   sung   the   night   that   tomb   received  a 

tenant , 
When,  as  alive,  clothed  in  his  Canon's  habit, 
And,  slowly  winding  down  the  narrow  path 
He  came  to  rest  there.     Nobles  of  the  land, 
Princes  and  prelates  mingled  in  his  train, 
Anxiously  any  act,  while  yet  they  could, 

♦  Count  Ujrolitio. 


IT  i.LY.  77 

To  catch  a  ray  of  glory  by  reflection ; 

And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  flock'd 

From  distant  countries,  from  the   north,   the 

south, 
To  see  where  he  is  laid. 

Twelve  years  ago, 
When  I  descended  the  impetuous  Rhone, 
Its  vineyards  of  such  great  and  old  renown, 
Its  castles,  each  with  some  romantic  tale, 
Vanishing  fast — the  pilot  at  the  stern. 
He  who  had  steer' d  so  long,  standing  aloft, 
His  eyes  on  the  white  breakers,  and  his  hands 
On  what  at  once  served  him  for  oar  and  rudder, 
A  huge  misshapen  plank — the  bark  itself 
Frail  and  uncouth,  launch' d  to  return  no  more. 
Such  as  a  shipwreck'd  man  might  hope  to  build. 
Urged  by  the  love  of  home — when  I  descended 
Two  long,  long  days'  silence,  suspense  onboard, 
It  was  to  offer  at  thy  fount,  Valclusa, 
Entering  the  arched  Gave,  to  wander  where 
Petrarch  had  wander'd,  in  a  trance  to  sit 
Where  in  his  peasant-dress  he  loved  to  sit, 
Musing,  reciting — on  some  rock  moss-grown, 
Or  the  fantastic  root  of  some  old  fig  tree, 
That  drinks  the  living  waters  as  they  stream 
Over  their  emerald-bed  ;  and  could  I  now 
Neglect  to  visit  Arqua,  (30)  where,  at  last, 
When  he  had  done  and  settled  with  the  world; 
When  all  the  illusions  of  his  Youth  were  fled. 
Indulged  perhaps  too  long,  cherish' d  too  fondly, 
lie  came  for  the  conclusion  ?     Half-way  up 


78  ITAIV. 

He  built  his  house,  (31)  whence  as  by  stealth 

he  caught 
Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life, 
That  soothed,  not  stirr'd. — But  knock,  and  en» 

ter  in. 
This  was  his  chamber.    'T  is  as  when  he  left  it ; 
As  if  he  now  were  busy  in  his  garden. 
And  this  his  closet.     Here  he  sate  and  read. 
This  Was  his  chair  ;  and  in  it,  unobserved, 
Reading,  or  thinking  of  his  absent  friends, 
He  pass'd  away  as  in  a  quiet  slumber. 

Peace  to  this  region !    Peace  to  all  who  dwell 

here: 
They  know  his  value— every  coming  step, 
That  gathers  round  the  children  from  their  play, 
Would  tell  them  if  they  knew  not.— But  could 

aught. 
Ungentle  or  ungenerous,  spring  up 
Where  he  is  sleeping  ;  where,  and  in  an  age 
Of  savage  warfare  and  blind  bigotry, 
He  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt ; 
Leading  to  better  things  ? 

XVIIl. 
GINEVRA. 

If  ever  you  should  come  to  Modena, 
Where  among  other  trophies  may  be  seen 
Tassoni's  bucket  (in  its  cham  it  hangs. 
Within  tha  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandina), 


Stop  at  a  Palace  near  the  Reggio-gat5, 
DweJt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini, 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  you— ^but,  before  you  go, 
Enter  the  house-^forget  it  not,  I  pray— - 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  therCi 

'T  is  a  Lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  family  ; 
Done  by  Zampieri^^but  by  whom  I  care  nqt- 
He,  who  observes  it-^ere  he  passes  on. 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up. 
As  though  she  said   "Beware!"  her  vest  of 

gold 
Broider'd  with  fiowcrs,  and  clasp' d  from  head 

to  foot, 
All  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp  5 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  eo  arch,  so  full  of  mirth. 
The  overflowine^s  of  an  innocent  heart— 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken  ckrst,  half-eate    by  the  worm, 


80  ITALY. 

But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  scripture-stores  from  the  Life  of  Christ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor— 
That  by  the  way' — it  may  be  true  or  false— 
But  don't  forget  the  picture  ;  and  you  will  not, 
When  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  mo 
there. 

She  was  an  only  child — her  name  Ginevra, 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  Father  ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety, 
Her  pranks  the  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preach' d  decorum  ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy  ;  but  at  the  Nuptial  Feast, 
When  all  sate  down,    the  Bride  herself  was 

wanting. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  Father  cried, 
"  'T  is  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  !" 
And  fiU'd  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook 
And  soon  fiom  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread 
*T  was  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco 


.  r\T.v.  81 

Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas,  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guess' d, 
But  that  she  was  not ! 

Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived — and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandiering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something   he   could   not   find — he  knew  not 

what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten, 

When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 

'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  Gallery, 

That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed  ;  and  't  was 

said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
"  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  V' 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton. 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald-stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 
All  else  had  perish' d — save  a  wedding-ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
F^ngraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave  ' 
Within  that  chest  had  she  conceal' d  herself, 
6 


82  ITALV. 

Fluttering  wiih  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happj  ; 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  thert, 
Fasten' d  her  down  for  ever  ! 

XIX. 

BOLOGNA. 

'T  WAS  night ;  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  day 
Were  o'er.  The  mountebank  no  longer  wrought 
Miraculous  cures — he  and  his  stage  were  gone  ; 
And  he  who,  when  the  crisis  of  his  tale 
Came,  and  all  stood  breathless  with  hope  and 

fear 
Sent  round  his  cap ;  and  he  who  thrumm'd  his 

wire 
And  sang,   with  pleading  look  and  plaintive 

strain 
Melting  the  passenger.     Thy  thousand  cries,* 
So  well  portray'd  and  by  a  son  of  thine. 
Whose  voice  had  swell' d  the  hubbub  in  his 

youth, 
Were  hush'd,  Bologna  ;  silence  in  the  streets, 
The  squares,  when  hark,  the  clattering  of  fleet 

hoofs ! 
And  soon  a  courier,  posting  as  from  far, 
Housing  and  holster,  boot  and  belted  coat 
And  doublet,  stain'd  with  many  a  various  soil, 
Stopt  and  alighted.     'T  was  where  hangs  aloft 

*  See  the  Cries  of  Bologna,  as  drown  by  Annioal  Car. 
racci.  [le  was  nf  very  huiTible origin;  and,  to  correct  iiis 
brolhpr's  vanity,  once  sent  hitn  a  p..nrait  of  llxeir  ^tticr, 
lb9  iailor,ibie.ading  his  needle. 


ITALY.  8S 

That  ancient  sign  the  pilgrim,  welcoming 
All  who  arrive  there,  all  perhaps  save  those 
Clad  like  himself,  with  statf  and  scallop-shell, 
Those  on  a  pilgrimage  :  and  now  approach' d 
Wheels,  through  the  lofty  porticoes  resounding. 
Arch  beyond  arch,  a  shelter  or  a  shade 
As  the  sky  changes.     To  the  gate  they  came  ; 
And.  ere  the  man  had  half  his  story  done, 
Mine  host  received  the  Master — one  long  used 
To  sojourn  among  strangers,  everywhere 
(Go  where  he  would,  along  the  wildest  track) 
Flinging  a  charm  that  shall  not  soon  be  lost, 
And  leaving  footsteps  to  be  traced  by  those 
Who  love  the  haunts  of  Genius ;  one  who  saw, 
Observed,  nor  shunn'd  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 
But  mingled  not,  and,  'mid  the  din,  the  stir. 
Lived  as  a  separate  Spirit. 

Much  had  pass'd 
Since   last   we   parted ;    and   those   five   short 

years — 
Much   had  they   told !     His   clustering   locks 

were  turn'd 
Grey ;   Nor  did  aught  recall  the  Youth  that 

swam 
From  Sestos  to  Abydos.     Yet  his  voice. 
Still  it  was  sweet ;  still  from  his  eye  the  thought 
Flash' d  lightning-like,  nor  linger' d  on  the  way, 
Waiting  for  words.     Far,  far  into  the  night 
We  sate,  conversing — no  unwelcome  hour, 
The  hour  we  met ;  and,  when  Aurora  rose, 
Rising,  we  climbed  the  rugged  Apenniue. 


84  ITALY. 

Well  I  remember  how  the  golden  sun 
Fill'd  with  its  beams  the  unfathomable  gulfe, 
As  on  we  travell'd,  and  along  the  ridge, 
'Mid  groves  of  cork  and  cistus  and  wild  fig, 
His  motley  household  came — Not  last  nor  least, 
Battista,  who  upon  the  moonlight-sea 
Of  Venice,  had  so  ably,  zealously 
Served,  and,  at  parting,  flung  his  oar  away 
To  follow  through  the  world  ;  who  without  stain 
Had  worn  so  long  that  honourable  badge,* 
The  gondolier's,  in  a  Patrician  House 
Arguing  unlimited  trust. — Not  last  nor  least, 
Thou,    though    declining  in    thy   beauty  and 

strength, 
Faithful  Moretto,  to  the  latest  hour 
Guarding  his  chamber-door,  and  now  along 
The  silent,  sullen  strand  of  I\Iissolonghi 
Howling  in  grief. 

He  had  just  left  that  place 
Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  Adrian  sea,t 
Ravenna;  where,  from  Dante's  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a  verse  declares, t 
Drawn  inspiration  ;  where,  at  twilight  time, 
Through  the  pine-forest  wandering  with  loose 

rein, 
Wandering  and  lost,  he  had  sc  oft  beheld  II 

*  The  principal  gondolier,  il  fame  <x\  poppa,  waa  almost 
always  in  the  confidence  ol'his  master,  and  employed  on 
occasions  that  required  judgmf^ni  and  address. 

t  Adrianum  mare.— CVc.  t  Hee  the  Prophecy  oi Dante. 
See  the  tale  as  told  by  Buc'-aaio  and  Dri/den. 


(What  is  not  visible  to  a  Poet's  eye  ?) 

The  spectre-lvnight,  the  hell-hounds,  and  theii 

prey, 
The  cliase,  the  slaughter,  and  the  festal  mirth 
Suddenly  blasted.     'T  was  a  theme  he  loved, 
But   others   claim'd  their  turn;  and  many  a 

tower, 
Shatter'd,  uprooted  from  its  native  rock, 
Its  strength  the  pride  of  some  hero::;  age, 
Appear'd  and  vanish'd  (many  a  sturdy  steer  * 
Yoked  and  unyoked),  while  as  in  happier  days 
He  pour'd  his  spirit  forth.     The  past  forgot, 
All  was  enjoyment.     Not  a  cloud  obscured 
Present  or  future. 

He  is  now  at  rest ; 
And  praise  and  blame  fall  on  his  ear  alike, 
Now  dull  in  death.     Yes,  Byron,  thou  art  gone, 
Gone  like  a  star  that  through  the  firmament 
Shot  and  was  lost,  in  its  eccentric  course 
Dazzling,  perplexing.    Yet  thy  heart,  methinks, 
Was  generous,  noble — noble  in  its  scorn 
Of  all  things  low  or  httle  ;  nothing  there 
Sordid  or  servile.     If  imagined  wrongs 
Pursued  thee,  urging  thee  sometimes  to  do 
Things  long  regretted,  oft,  as  many  know, 
None  more  than  I,  thy  gratitude  would  build 
On  slight  foundations  :  and,  if  in  thy  life 
Not  happy,  in  thy  death  thou  surely  wert, 
Thy  wish  accomplish' d  ;  dying  in  the  land 

•  They  wait  fcr  the  traveller's  carriage  at  the  foot  ol 
•reiy  hill. 


86  ITALY. 

Where  thy  young  inind  had  caught  ethereal  tirei 
Dying  in  Greece,  and  in  a  cause  so  glorious ! 

They  in  thy  train — ah,  little  did  they  think, 
As  round  we  went,  that  tliey  so  soon  should  sit 
Mourning  beside  thee,  while  a  Nation  mourn'd, 
Changing  her  festal  for  her  funeral  song ; 
That  they  so  soon  should  hear  the  minute-gun, 
As  morning  gleam'd  on  what  remain'd  of  thee, 
Roll  o'er  the  sea,  the  mountains,  numbering 
Thy  years  of  joy  and  sorrow. 

Thou  art  gone ; 
And  he  who  would  assail  thee  in  thy  grave. 
Oh,  let  him  pause  !     For  who  among  us  all, 
Tried  as  thou  wert — even  from  thine  earliest 

years, 
When  wandering,  yet  unspoilt,  a  highland  boy- 
Tried  as  thou  wert,  and  with  thy  soul  of  flame  ; 
Pleasure,  while  yet  the  down  was  on  thy  cheek, 
Uplifting,  pressing,  and  to  lips  like  thine 
Her  charmed  cup — ah,  who  among  us  all 
Could  say  he  had  not  err'd  as  much,  and  mort  ? 

XX. 

FLORENCE. 

Of  all  the  fairest  cities  of  the  earth 
None  are  so  fair  as  Florence.     'T  is  a  gem 
Of  purest  ray,  a  treasure  for  a  casket ! 
And  what  a  glorious  lustre  did  it  shed, 
When    it    emerged  from    darkness!      Search 
within, 


ITALY.  87 

Wiihout,  all  is  eiichantment !     'T  is  the  past 
Contending  with  the  present ;  and  in  turn 
Each  has  the  mastery. 

in  this  chapel  wrought  (32) 
Massaccio  ;  and  he  slumbers  underneath. 
Wouldst   thou   behold  his  monument?     liOok 

round . 
And  know  that  where  we  stand,  stood  oft  and 

long 
Oft  till  the  day  was  gone,  Raphael  himself, 
He  and  his  haughty  Rival — patiently, 
Humbly,  to  learn  of  those  who  came  before, 
To  steal  a  spark  from  their  authentic  fire, 
Theirs,  who  first  broke  the  gloom,  Sons  of  the 

jMorning. 

There,  on  the  seat  that  runs  along  the  wall, 
South  of  the  Church,  east  of  the  belfry-tower 
(Thou  canst  not  miss  it),  in  the  sultry  time 
Would  Dante  sit  conversing,  and  with  those 
Who  little  thought  that  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  balance,  and  assign' d  at  his  good  pleasure 
To  each  his  place  in  the  invisible  world, 
To  some  an  upper,  some  a  lov/er  region ; 
R-Cserving  in  his  secret  mind  a  niche 
For  thee,  Saltrello,  who  with  quirks  of  law 
Hadst  plagued  him  sore,  and  carefully  requi- 
ting 
Such  as  ere-Iong  condemn'd  hi?  nt^rtalpart 
To   fu-e.   (33)   Sit  down  awhile-- ./\on   by  th« 

gates 
Wondrously  wrought,  so  beautiful,  nb  ^loriooa, 


30  ITALY. 

Thai  they  might  serve  to  be  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
Enter  the  Baptistery.     That  place  he  loved, 
Calling  it  his  !     And  in  his  visits  there 
Well  might  he  take  delight !  1  or,  when  a  child, 
Playing,    vv'ith  venlm-ous  feet,   near  and   yet 

nearer 
One  of  the  fonts,  fell  in,  he  flew  and  saved  him, 
Flew  with  an  energy,  a  violence, 
That  broke  the  marble — a  mishap  ascribed 
To  evil  motives  ;  his,  alas  !  to  lead 
A  life  of  trouble,  and  ere-long  to  leave 
All  things  most  dear  to  him,  ere-long  to  know 
Hov/  salt  another's  bread  is,  and  how  toilsome 
The  going  up  and  down  another's  stairs. 

Nor  then  forget  the  Chamber  of  the  Dead,  (34) 
Where  the  gigantic  forms  of  Night  and  Pay, 
Turn'd  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly. 
Yet  still  are  breathing  ;  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A  two-fold  inlliience — only  to  be  felt — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingled  each  with  each ; 
Both  and  yet  neither.     There,  from  age  to  age. 
Two  Ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.    Mark  him  well.  (35) 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  scowls  beneath  his  broad  and  helm-like 

bonnet  ? 
Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull  ? 
'T  is  hid  in  shade  ;  yet,  like  the  basilisk, 
It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 
His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical ! 
Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard, 


ITALY.  89 

At  morn  or  eve — nor  fail  thou  to  attend 
On  that  thrice-liallow'd  day,  when  all  are  there  ; 
When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs, 
With  light,  and  frankincense,  and  holy  water, 
Visit  the  Dead.    Then  wilt  thou  feel  his  power  I 

But  let  not  Sculpture,  Painting,  Poesy, 
Or  they,  the  masters  of  these  mighty  spells, 
Detain  us.     Our  first  homage  is  to  Virtue. 
Where,  in  what  dungeon  of  the  Citadel, 
(It  must  be  known — the  writing  on  the  wall  (36) 
Cannot  be  gone — 't  was  cut  in  with  his  dagger, 
Ere,  on  his  knees  to  God,  h(  slew  himself), 
Where,  in  what  dungeon,  did  Filippo  Strozzi, 
The  last,  the  greatest  of  the  Men  of  Florence, 
Breathe  out   his  soul — lest  in  his  agony. 
When  on  the  rack  and  call'd  upon  to  answer. 
He  might  accuse  the  guiltless. 

That  debt  paid, 
But  with  a  sigh,  a  tear  for  human  frailty, 
AVe  may  return,  and  once  more  give  a  loose 
To  the  delighted  spirit — worshipping, 
In  her  small  temple  of  rich  workmanship,* 
Venus  herself,  who,  when  she  left  the  skies 
Came  hither. 

XXT. 

DON  GARZIA. 

Aaiong  the  awful  forms  that  s'and  assembled 
In  the  g  eat  square  of  Florence    may  be  seen 

*  The  Tribune 


JO  ITALV. 

That  Cosmo,  (37)  not  the  Father  of  his  Country, 

Not  he  so  styled,  but  he  who  play'd  the  tyrant. 

Clad  in  rich  armour  like  a  paladin, 

But  with  his  helmet  off — in  kingly  state, 

Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass ; 

And  they,  who  read  the  legend  underneath, 

Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     Yet  there  is 

A  Chamber  at  Grosseto,  that,  if  walls 

Could  speak,  and  tell  of  what  is  done  within. 

Would  turn  your  admiration  into  pity. 

Half  of  what  pass'd  died  with  him  ;  but  the  rest, 

All  he  discover'd  when  the  fit  was  on. 

All  that,  by  those  who  listen' d,  could  be  glean'd 

From  broken  sentences  and  starts  in  sleep, 

Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  Chronicler. 

Two  of  his  sons,  Giovanni  and  Garzia 
(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  sixteenth  summer), 
Went  to  the  chase  ;  but  one  of  them.  Giovanni; 
His  best  beloved,  the  glory  of  his  house, 
Return' d  not ;  and  at  close  of  day  was  found 
Bathed  in  his  innocent  blood.     Too  well,  alas  ! 
The   trembling   Cosmo  guess'd  the  deed,  the 

doer ; 
And  having  caused  the  body  to  be  borne 
In  secret  to  that  chamber — at  an  hour 
When  all  slept  sound,    save  the  disconsolate 

Mother,*  (38) 
Who  little  thought  of  what  was  yrt  to  come, 
And  lived  but  to  be  told — he  bads  Garzia 

*  Eleonora  di  Toledo. 


IT/L^.  91 

A.rise  and  follow  him.     Holding  in  one  hand 
A.  winking  lamp,  and  in  tiie  otlier  a  key 
Massive  and  dungeon-like,  ihiiher  he  led  ; 
And,  having  enter'd  in  and  lock'd  the  door, 
The  father  hx'd  his  eyes  upon  the  son. 
And  closely  questioned  him.  No  change  betray'  i 
Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  Cosmo  lifted  up 
The  bloody  sheet.    "  Look  there  !  Look  there  !' 

he  cried, 
' '  Blood  calls  for  blood — and  from  a  father's  hand ! 
— Unless  thyself  wilt  save  him  that  sad  office. 
Vv^'hatl"  he  exclaim'd,  when,  shuddering  at  the 

sight. 
The  boy  breath'd  out,   "I  stood  but  on  my 

guard." 
"  Darest   thou  then  bLicken  one   who   never 

wrong'd  thee. 
Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm  ? — 
Yes,  thou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee, 
And  thou  shouldst  be  the  slayer  of  us  all." 
Then  from  Garzia's  side  he  took  the  dagger, 
That  fatal  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood; 
And,  kneeUng  on  the  ground,  "  Great  God  !" 

he  cried, 
"  Grant  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  Justice. 
Thou  knowest  what  it  cos's  me  ;  but,  alas, 
How  can  I  spare  myself,  spiring  none  else? 
Grant  me  the  strength,  the  will — and  oh  forgive 
The  sinful  soul  of  a  most  svretched  son. 
'T  is  a  most  wretched  fa' her  who  implores  it." 
hgng  on  Garzia's  neck  he  hung,  and  wept 
Tenderly,  long  press'd  him  to  his  bosom  ; 


i2  ITALY 

And  then,  but  while  he  held  him  by  the  arm, 
Thrusting  him  backward,  turn'd  away  his  face, 
And  stabb'd  him  to  the  heart. 

Well  might  De  Thou, 
"When  in  his  youth  he  came  to  Cosmo's  court, 
Think  on  the  past ;  and,  as  he  wander' d  through 
The  Ancient  Palace— through  those  ample  spaces 
Silent,  deserted — slop  awhile  to  dwell 
Upon  two  portraits  there,  drawn  on  the  wall 
Together,  as  of  two  in  bonds  of  love, 
One  in  a  Cardinal's  habit,  one  in  black, 
Those  of  the  unhappy  brothers,  and  infer 
From  the  deep  silence  that  his  questions  drew, 
The  terrible  truth. 

Well  might  he  heave  a  sigh 
For  poor  humanity,  when  he  beheld 
That  very  Cosmo  shaking  o'er  his  fire, 
Drowsy  aod  deaf  and  inarticulate. 
Wrapt  in  his  night-gown,  o'er  a  sick  man's 

mess. 
In  the  last  stage — death- struck  and  deadly  pale ; 
His  wife,  another,  not  his  Eleonora, 
At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 

XXII. 

THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE. 

'T  IS  morning.     Let  us  wander  through  the 
fields. 
Where  Cimabue  fcmd  a  shepherd-boy  * 

*Gioiio. 


ITALY.  93 

Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  grouad  ; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  Fiesole, 
Whence  GaHleo's  glass  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  round  below 
On  Arno's  vale,  where  the  dove-colour'd  oxen 
Are  plowing  up  and  down  among  the  vines, 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud, 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness — and  on  thee 
Beautiful  Florence,  all  within  thy  walls, 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers, 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

From  that  small  spire,  just  caught 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  the  rest 
By  One  of  Old  distinguish'd  as  The  Bride, 
Let  us  pursue  in  thought  (what  can  we  better  ?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin-prayers  ;* 
Who,  when  Vice  revell'd,  and  along  the  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door, 
Came  out  into  the  meadows  ;  (39)  and,  awhile 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly, 
Sate  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun-proof — day  after  day. 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  Cicala's  voice  among  the  olives, 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care, 
Their  hundred  novels. 

Round  the  hill  they  went. 
Round  underneath — first  to  a  splendid  house, 

♦  See  the  Decameron     First  Day. 


94  ITALY. 

Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs, 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale  ; 
A  place  for  Luxury — he  painted  rooms, 
The  open  galleries  and  middle  court 
Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  with  flowers. 
Then  westward  to  ano;her,  nobler  yet ; 
Then  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri, 
Where  Art  with  Nature  vied — a  Paradise, 
With  verdurous  walls,  and  many  a  trellis'd  walk 
All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  forest-vista 
Cross'd  by  the  deer.    Then  to  the  Ladies'  Val- 
ley; 
And  the  clear  lake,  that  seem'd  as  by  enchant* 

ment 
To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 
Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 
Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold, 
Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 

Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day? 
The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountain-side,  (40) 
The  dance  that   folic  w'd,    and   the   noon-tide 

slumber ; 
Then  the  tales  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  waters  murmuring; 
And  the  short  interval  fiU'd  up  with  games 
Of  Chess,  and  talk,  and  reading  old  Romances, 
Till  supper-time,  when  many  a  syren-voice 
Sung   down   the   stars,    and  in  the  grass  the 

torches 
Burnt  brighvr  for  their  absence. 


ITALi.  95 

He,*  whose  dream 
It  was  (it  was  no  more)  sleeps  in  Val  d'Elsa, 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where  (in  his  ear  I  ween) 
The  Friar  pour'd  out  his  catalogue  of  treasures ; 
A  ray,  imprimis,  of  the  star  that  shone 
To  the  Wise  Men  ;  a  phial-full  of  sounds, 
The  musical  chimes  of  the  great  bells  that  hung 
In  Solomon's  Temple ;   and,   though  last  not 

least, 
A  feather  from  the  Angel  Gabriel's  wing, 
Dropt  in  the  Virgin's  chamber. 

That  dark  ridge 
Stretching  away  in  the  South-east,  conceals  it ; 
Not  so  his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm, 
His  copse  and  rill,  if  yet  a  trace  be  left, 
Who  lived  in  Val  di  Pesa,  suffering  long 
Exile  and  want,  and  the  keen  shafts  of  Malice, 
With  an  unclouded  mind.t     The  ghmmering 

tower 
On  the  grey  rock  beneath,  his  land-mark  once, 
Now  serves  for  ours,  and  points  out  where  he  ate 
His  bread  with  cheerfulness. 

Who  sees  him  not 
('T  is  his  own  sketch — he  drew  it  from  himself) 
Playing  the  bird-catcher,  and  sallying  forth 
In  an  autumnal  morn,  laden  with  cages, 
To  catch  a  thrush  on  every  lime-twig  there ; 
Or  in  the  wood  among  his  wood-cutters ; 
Or  in  the  tavern  by  the  highway-side 

♦  Boccaccio.  t  jMachiaveL 


St'i  ITALY. 

At  irioirac  wiih  the  miller;  or  at  night, 
Dolling  hid  rustic  suit,  and,  duly  clad, 
Entering  his  closet,  and,  among  his  books, 
Among  the  Great  of  every  age  and  clime, 
A  numerous  court,  turning  to  whom  he  pleased, 
Questioning  each  why  he  did  this  or  that, 
And  learning  how  to  overcome  the  fear 
Of  poverty  and  death  ? 

Nearer  we  hail 
Thy  sunny  slope,  Arcetri,  sung  of  Old 
For  its  green  wine — dearer  to  me,  to  most, 
As  dwelt  on  by  that  great  Astronomer,* 
Seven  years  a  pri.^oner  at  the  city  gate, 
Let  in  but  in  his  grave-clothes.     Sacred  be 
His  cottage  (justly  was  it  call'd  The  Jewel!) 
Sacred  the  vineyard,  where,  while  yet  his  sight 
Glimmer' d,  at  blush  of  dawn  he  dress' d  his 

vines, 
Chanting  aloud  in  gaiety  of  heart 
Some  verse  of  Ariosto.     There,  unseen,  (41) 
In  manly  beauty  Milton  stood  before  him, 
Gazing  with  reverent  awe — Milton,  his  guest, 
Just  then  come  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise  ; 
He  in  his  old  age  and  extremity, 
Blind,  at  noon-day  exploring  with  his  staff; 
His  eyes  upturn'd  as  to  the  golden  sun, 
His  eye-balls  idly  rolling.     Little  then 
Did  Galileo  think  whom  he  bade  welcome ; 
That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 

♦  Galileo. 


ITALY.  97 

Who  could  requite  him — who  would  spread  hia 

name 
O'er  lands   and   seas — great   as  himself,   nay 

greater ; 
Milton  as  little  that  in  him  he  saw, 
As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be, 
Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 
And  evil  tongues — so  soon,  alas,  to  live 
In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compass' d  round, 
And  sohtude. 

Well  pleased,  could  we  pursue 
The  Arno,  from  his  birth-place  in  the  clouds. 
So  near  the  yellow  Tiber's  (42) — springing  up 
From  his  four  fountains  on  the  Apennine, 
That  mountain-ridge  a  sea-mark  to  the  ships 
Sailing  on  either  Sea.     Downward  he  runs, 
Scattering  fresh  verdure  through  the  desolate 

wild, 
Down  by  the  City  of  Hermits,  and,  ere-long, 
The  venerable  woods  of  Vallombrosa  ; 
Then  through  these  gardens  to  the  Tuscan  sea, 
Reflecting  castles,  convents,  villages. 
And  those  great  Rivals  in  an  elder  day, 
Florence  and  Pisa — who  have  given  him  fame, 
Fame  everlasting,  but  who  stain'd  so  oft 
His  troubled  waters.     Oft,  alas,  were  seen, 
When   flight,  pursuit,  and  hideous  rout  were 

there, 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  implor- 
ing;  (43) 
Tht  man,  the  hero,  on  his  foaming  steed, 
7 


Borne  underneath— already  in  the  reahna 
Of  Darkness. 

Nor  did  night  or  burning  noon 
Bring  respite.     Oft,  as  that  great  Artist  saw,* 
Whose  pencil  had  a  voice,  the  cry  "  To  arms  !'* 
And  the  shrill  trumpet,  hurried  up  tlie  bank 
Those  who  had  stolen  an  hour  to  breast  the  tide 
And  wash  from  their  unharness' d  limbs  the 

blood 
And  sweat  of  battle.     Sudden  was  the  rush, 
Violent  the  tumult ;  for,  already  in  sight. 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  the  danger  drew ; 
Each  every  sinew  straining,  every  feature, 
Each  snatching  up,  and  girding,  buckling  on 
Morion  and  greave  and  shirt  of  twisted  mail, 
As  for  his  life — no  more  perchance  to  taste, 
Arno,  the  grateful  freshness  of  thy  glades, 
Thy  waters— where,  exulting,  he  had  felt 
A  swimmer's  transport,  there,  alas,  to  float 
And  welter.     Nor  between  the  gusts  of  War, 
When  flocks  were  feeding,  and  the  shepherd's 

pipe 
Gladden'd  the  valley,  when,  but  not  unarm'd, 
The  sower  came  forth,  and,  following  him  who 

plow'd. 
Threw  in  the  seed— did  thy  indignant  waves 
Escape  pollution.    Sullen  was  the  splash. 
Heavy  and  swift  the  plunge,  when  they  received 
The  key  that  just  had  grated  on  the  ear 

•Michael  AngeU) 


ITALT.  99 

Of  Ugolino— closing  up  for  ever 

That  dismal  dimgeon  hericeforth  to  be  named 

The  Tower  of  Famine. 

Once  indeed  't  was  thine 
When  majiy  a  winter-flood,  thy  tributary, 
Was  through  its  rocky  glen  rushing,  resounding, 
And  thou  wert  in  thy  might,  to  save,  restore 
A  charge  most  precious.     To  the  nearest  ford, 
Hastening,  a  horseman  from  Arezzo  carae. 
Careless,  impatient  of  delay,  a  babe 
Slung  in  a  basket  to  the  knotty  staff 
That  lay  athwart  his  saddle-bow.    He  spurs, 
He  enters  ;  and  his  horse,  alarm'd,  perplex'd, 
flalts  in  the  m.idst.    Great  is  the  stir,  the  strife ', 
And  lo,  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea. 
The  babe  is  floating  !     Fast  and  far  he  flies ; 
Now  tempest-rock' d,  now  whirling  round  and 

round, 
But  not  to  perish.    By  thy  willing  waves 
Borne  to  the  shore,  among  the  bulrushes 
The  ark  has  rested  ;  and  unhurt,  secure, 
As  on  his  mother's  breast  he  sleeps  within, 
All  peace  !  or  never  had  the  nations  heard 
That  voice  so  sweet,  which  still  enchants,  in- 
spires ; 
That  voice,  which  sung  of  love,  of  liberty. 

Petrarch  lay  there  I And  such  the  images 

That  cluster' d  round  our  .Milton,  when  at  CyO 
Reclined  beside  thee,  Amo  ;  when  at  eve 
Led  on  by  thee,  he  wander'd  witJi  delight, 
Framing  Ovidian  verse,  and  through  thy-groves 
Gathering  wild  myrtle.  Such  the  PoeVs  d.-eams; 


100  ITAI,T. 

Yet  not  such  only.    For  look  round  and  saff , 
Where  is  the  ground  that  did  not  drink  waros 

blood, 
The  echo  that  had  learnt  not  to  articulate 
The  cry  of  murder  ? — Fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when  ('t  was  in  a  street  behind 
The  church  and  convent  of  the  Holy  Cross- 
There  is  the  house — that  house  of  ihe  Donati, 
Towerless,  and  left  long  since,  but  to  the  last 
Braving  assault — all  rugged,  all  emboss'd 
Below,  and  still  distinguish'd  by  the  rings 
Of  brass,  that  held  in  war  and  festival-time 
Their  family-standards)  fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when,  at  morn,  at  tlie  ninth  hour, 
A  noble  Dame  in  weeds  of  widowhood, 
Weeds  to  be  worn  hereafter  by  so  many, 
Stood  at  her  door  ;  and,  like  a  sorceress,  flung 
Her  dazzling  spell.     Subtle  she  was,  and  rich, 
Rich  in  a  hidden  pearl  of  heavenly  light. 
Her  daughter's  beauty ;  and  too  well  she  knew 
Its  virtue  f     Patiently  she  stood  and  watch'd ; 
Nor  stood  alone — but  spoke  not. — In  her  breasl 
Her  purpose  lay  ;  and,  as  a  youth  pass'd  by. 
Clad  for  the  nuptial  rite,  she  smiled  and  said. 
Lifting  a  corner  of  the  maiden's  veil, 
"  This  had  I  treasured  up  in  secret  for  thee. 
This  hast  thou  lost !"     He  gazed  and  was  un- 
done I 
Forgetting — ^not  forgot — he  broke  the  bond, 
And  paid  the  penalty,  losing  his  hfe 
At  the  bridge-foot ;  (44)  and  hence  a  world  of 
woe  ! 


ITALT.  101 

Vengearxe    for  vengeance    crying,    blood  for 

blood  ; 
No  intermission  !     Law,  that  slumbers  not, 
And,  like  the  Angel  with  the  flaming  sword, 
Sits  over  all,  at  once  chastising,  healing, 
Himself  the  Avenger,  went ;  and  every  street 
Ran  red  with  mutual  slaughter — though  some- 
times 
The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt, 
And  loved  when  they  should  hate — like  thee, 

Imelda, 
Thee  and  thy  Paolo.     When  last  ye  met 
In  that  still  hour  (the  heat,  the  glare  was  gone, 
Not  so  the  splendour — through  the  cedar-grove 
A  radiance  streamM  like  a  consuming  fire, 
As  though  the  glorious  orb,  in  its  descent. 
Had  come  and  rested  there)  when  last  ye  met. 
And  those  relentless  brothers  dragg'd  him  forth, 
It  had  been  well,  hadst  thou  slept  on,  Imelda,(45) 
Nor  from  thy  trance  of  fear  awaked,  as  night 
Fell  on  that  fatal  spot,  to  wish  thee  dead, 
To  track  him  by  his  blood,  to  search,  to  find, 
Then  fling  thee  down  to  catch  a  word,  a  look, 
A  sigh,  if  yet  thou  couldst  (alas,  thou  couldsl 

not) 
And  die,  unseen,  unthought  of— from  the  wound 
Sucking  the  poison.  (4G) 

Yet,  when  Slavery  came 
Worse  folio w'd.ClT"*  Genius,  Valour  left  the  land, 
Indignant — all  that  had  from  age  to  age 
Adorn'd,  ennobled  ;  and  headlong  they  fell, 
Tyrant  and  slave.    For  deeds  of  violence, 


102  ITA  LY. 

Done  in  broad  day  and  more  than  ha!f-redeem*d 
By  many  a  great  and  generous  sacrifice 
Of  self  to  others,  came  the  unpledged  bowl. 
The  stab  of  the  stiletto.     Gliding  by 
Unnoticed,  in  sloueh'd  hat  and  muffling  cloak, 
That  just  discover'd,  Caravaggio-Iike, 
A  swarthy  cheek,  black  brow,  and  eye  of  flame» 
The  Cravo  took  his  stand,  and  o'er  the  shouldes 
Plunged  to  the  hilt,  or  from  beneath  the  ribs 
Slanting  (a  surer  path,  as  some  averr'd) 
Struck  upward — then  slunk  off,  or,  if  pursued. 
Made  for  the  Sanctuary,  and  there  along 
The  glimmering  aisle  among  the  worshippers 
Wander'd  with  restless  step  and  jealous  look. 
Dropping  thick  gore. 

Misnamed  to  lull  suspicion^ 
In  every  Palace  was  The  Laboratory, 
Where  he  within  brew'd  poisons  swift  and  slow. 
That    scatter' d    terror    till   all   things   seem'd 

poisonous. 
And  brave  men  trembled  if  a  hand  held  out 
A  nosegay  or  a  letter ;  while  the  Great 
Drank  from  the  Venice-glass,  that  broke,  thai 

shiver'd. 
If  aught  malignant,  aught  of  thine  was  there, 
Cruel  Tophana  ;  (48)  and  pawn'd  provinces 
For  the  miraculous  gem  that  to  the  wearer 
Gave  signs  infallible  of  coming  ill. 
That  clouded  though  the  vehicle  of  death 
Were  an  invisible  perfume. 

Happy  then 
The  guest  to  whom  at  sleeping- time  't  was  said. 


ITA^T.  103 

But  in  an  under- vc ice  (a  lady's  page 
Speaks  in  no  louder)  "  Pass  not  on.    That  door 
Leads  to  another  which  awaits  your  coming, 
One  in  the  floor — now  left,  alas,  unbolted, 
No  eye  detects  it — lying  under-foot, 
Just  as  you  enter,  at  the  threshold-stone  ; 
Ready  to  fall  and  plunge  you  into  darkness, 
Darkness  and  long  obhvion  !" 

Then  indeed 
Where  lurk'd  not  danger  ?     Through  the  fairy- 

land 
No  seat  of  pleasure  glittering  half-way  down, 
No  hunting-place — but  with  some  damning  spot 
That  will  not  be  wash'd  out  I    There,  at  Caiano, 
Where,   when  the   hawks   were   hooded  and 

iSTight  came, 
Pulci  would  set  ihe  table  in  a  roar 
With  his  wild  lay — there  where  the  Sun  de. 

scends, 
And  hill  and  dale  are  lost,  veil'd  with  his  beams, 
The  fair  Venetian*  died — she  and  her  lord, 
Died  of  a  posset  drugg'd  by  him  who  sate 
And  saw  them  suffer,  flinging  back  the  charge, 
The  murderer  on  the  murder' d. 

Sobs  of  Grief, 
Sounds  inarticulate — suddenly  stopt, 
And  foUow'd  by  a  struggle  and  a  gasp, 
A  gasp  in  death,  are  heard  yet  in  Cerreto, 
Along  the  marble  halls  and  staircases. 
Nightly  at  twelve  ;  and,  at  the  self-same  houTy 

♦  Bianca  Capello. 


104  ITALY. 

Shrieks,  such  as  penetrate  the  inmost  soul, 
Such  as  awake  the  innocent  babe  to  long, 
Long  waihng,  echo  through  the  emptiness 
Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills,  (49) 
Frowning  on  him  who  comes  from  Pietra-Mala 
In  them,  in  both,  within  five  days  and  less, 
Two  unsuspecting  victims,  passing  fair, 
Welcomed  with  kisses,  and  slain  cruelly. 
One  with  the  knife,  one  with  the  fatal  noose. 

But  lo,  the  Sun  is  setting  ;  earth  and  sky 
One  blaze  of  glory — What  but  now  we  saw 
As  though  it  were  not,  though  it  had  not  been ! 
He  lingers  yet,  and,  lessening  to  a  point. 
Shines  like  the  eye  of  Heaven — then  withdraws ; 
And  from  the  zenith  to  the  utmost  skirts 
All  is  celestial  red !     The  hour  is  come. 
When  they  that  sail  along  the  distant  seas 
Languish  for  home  ;  and  they  that  in  the  morn 
Said  to  sweet  friends  "farewell,"  melt  as  at 

parting ;  _ 
When,  journeying  on,  the  pilgrim,  as  he  hears, 
As  now  we  hear  it,  echoing  round  the  hill, 
The  bell  that  seems  to  mourn  the  dying  day, 
Slackens  his  pace  and  sighs,  and  those  he  loved 
Loves  more  than  ever.     Rut  who  feels  it  not  f 
And  well  may  we,  for  we  are  far  away. 
Let  us  retire,  and,  hril  it  in  our  hearts. 


ITALY. 


PART  II. 

I. 

THE   PILGRIM. 

It  was  an  hour  of  universal  joy. 
The  lark  was  up  and  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
Singing,  as  sure  to  enter  when  he  came  ; 
The  butterfly  was  basking  in  my  path, 
His  radiant  wings  unfolded.     From  below 
The  bell  of  prayer  rose  slowly,  plaintively  ; 
And  odours,  such  as  welcome  in  the  day, 
Such  as  salute  the  early  traveller, 
And  come  and  go,  each  sweeter  than  the  last, 
Were  rising.     Hill  and  valley  breathed  delight 
And  not  a  living  thing  but  bless' d  the  hour  ! 
In  every  bush  and  brake  there  was  a  voice 
Responsive  ! 

From  the  Thrasymene,  that  now 
Slept  in  the  sun,  a  lake  of  molten  gold, 
Rock'd  to  and  fro  unfelt,  so  terrible 
The  ra^e,  the  slaughter,  I  had  turn'd  away  ; 

105 


106  ITALY. 

The  path,  that  led  m^,  leading  through  a  wood 
A  fairy-wilderness  oi  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  by  a  brook  that,  in  the  day  of  strife, 
Ran  blood,  but  now  runs  amber — when  a  glade, 
Far,  far  wiihin,  sunn'd  only  at  noon-day, 
Suddenly  open'd.     Many  a  bench  was  there, 
Kach  round  its  ancient  elm  ;  and  many  a  track, 
Well  known  to  them  that  from  the  highway 

loved 
Awhile  to  deviate.     In  the  midst  a  cross 
Of  mouldering  stone  as  in  a  temple  stood, 
Solemn,  severe  ;  coeval  with  the  trees 
That  round  it  in  majestic  order  rose  ; 
And  on  the  lowest  step  a  Pilgrim  knelt, 
Clasping  his  hands  in  prayer.     He  was  the  firrt 
Yet  seen  by  me  (save  in  a  midnight-masque, 
A  revel,  where  none  cares  to  play  his  part, 
And  they,  that   speak,   at  once   dissolve  the 

charm) 
The  first  in  sober  truth,  no  counterfeit ; 
And,  when  his  orisons  were  duly  paid. 
He  rose,  and  we  exchanged,  as  all  are  wont, 
A  traveller's  greeting. 

Young  and  of  an  age 
When  Youth  is  most  attractive,  when  a  light 
Plays  round  and  round,  reflected,  if  I  err  not. 
From  some  attendant  Spirit,  that  ere-long 
(His  charge  relinquish' d  wit-j  a  sigh,  a  tear) 
Wings  his  flight  upward — wit  a  a  look  he  won 
My  favour  ;  and,  the  spell  of  silence  broke, 
I  cculd  not  but  continue. 


3TALY.  107 

"  Y/bence,"  I  ask'd, 
"Whence  art  thou ?"—"  From  Mont' a!tc." 

he  replied, 
"  My  native  village  in  the  Apennines." 
"And  whither  journeying?" — "To  the  holy 

shrine 
Of  Saint  Antonio,  in  the  City  of  Padua. 
Perhaps,  if  thou  hast  ever  gone  so  far, 
Thou  wilt   direct  my  course." — "Most  wil- 
lingly ; 
But  thou  hast  much  to  do,  much  to  endure, 
Ere  thou  hast  enter' d  where  the  silver  lamps 
Burn  ever.     Tell  me — I  ^vould  not  transgress, 
Yet  ask  I  must — what  could  have  brought  thee 

forth; 
Nothing  in  act  or  thought  to  be  atoned  for  ?"— 
"  It  was  a  vow  I  made  in  my  distress. 
We  were  so  blest,  none  were  so  blest  as  we. 
Till  Sickness  came.    First,  as  death-struck,  I 

fell ; 
Then  my  beloved  sister ;  and  ere-long. 
Worn  with  continual  watchings,  night  and  day.. 
Our  saint-like  mother.    Worse  and  worse  she 

grew; 
And  in  my  anguish,  my  despair,  I  Yow'd, 
That  if  she  lived,  if  Pleaven  restored  her  to  us, 
I  would  forthwith,  and  in  a  Pilgrim's  weeds. 
Visit  that  holy  shrine.     My  vow  was  heard  ; 
And  therefore  am  I  come." — "  Thou  hast  don« 

well ; 
And  may  those  weeds,  so  reverenced  of  old. 
Guard  thee  in  danger  !" — 


106  ITA  LY- 

"  They  are  nothing  worth. 
But  they  are  worn  in  humble  confidence ; 
Nor  would  I  for  the  richest  robe  resign  them, 
Wrought,  as  they  were,  by  those  I  love  so  well, 
Lauretta  and  my  sister  ;  theirs  the  task, 
But  none  to  them,  a  pleasure,  a  delight, 
To  ply  their  utmost  skill,  and  send  me  forth 
As  best  became  this  service.    Their  last  words, 
'  Fare  thee  well,  Carlo.     We  shall  count  the 

hours !' 
Will  not  go  from  me." — 

"  Health  and  strength  be  thine 
In  thy  long  travel !     May  no  sun-beam  strike  ; 
No  vapour  cling  and  wither  !     Mayest  thou  be, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  sacred  and  secure  ! 
And,  when  again  thou  comest,  thy  labour  done, 
Joy  be  among  ye  ]     In  that  happy  hour 
All  will  pour  forth  to  bid  thee  welcome,  Carlo; 
And  there  is  one,  or  I  am  much  deceived. 
One  thou  hast  named,  who  will  not  be  the  last."— 
"  Oh,  she  is  true  as  Truth  itself  can  be  ! 
But  ah,  thou  knowest  her  not.    Would  that 

thou  couldst ! 
My  steps  I  quicken  when  I  think  of  her ; 
For,  though  they  take  me  further  from  her  door, 
I  shall  return  the  sooner." 

II. 

AN  INTERVIEW. 

Pleasuee,  that  comes  unlook'd-xi^r,  is  thrica 
welcome .; 


nxv7.  105? 

And,  if  it  stir  the  heart,  if  aught  be  there, 
That  may  hereafter  in  a  thouglnful  hour 
Wake  but  a  sigh,  't  is  treasured  up  among 
The  things  most  precious  ;  and  the  day  it  camd, 
Is  noted  as  a  white  day  in  our  hves. 

The  sun  was  wheeling  westward,  and  the 
chffs 
And  nodding  woods,  that  everlastingly 
(Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice, 
Thy  voice,  Velino,  utter'd  in  the  mist) 
Hear  thee  and  answer  thee,  were  left  at  length 
For  others  still  as  noon ;  and  on  we  stray' d 
From  wild  to  wilder,  nothing  hospitable 
Seen  up  or  down,  no  bush  or  green  or  dry. 
That  ancient  symbol  at  the  coitage-door, 
Offering  refreshment — when  Luigi  cried, 
*'  Well,  of  a  thousand  tracts  we  chose  the  best !" 
And,  turning  round  an  oak,  oracular  once. 
Now  lightning-struck,  a  cave,  a  thoroughfare 
For  all  that  came,  each  entrance  a  broad  arch^ 
Whence  many  a  deer,  rustling  his  velvet  coat, 
Had  issued,  many  a  gipsy  and  her  brood 
Peer'd  forth,  then  housed  again — the  floor  yet 

grey 
With  ashes,  and  the  sides,  where  roughest,  hung 
Loosely  with  locks  of  hair — I  look'd  and  saw 
What,  seen  in  such  an  hour  by  Sancho  Panzs, 
Had  given  his  honest  countenance  a  breadth, 
His  cheeks  a  flush  of  pleasure  and  surprise, 
Unknown  before,  had  chain'd  him  to  the  spot, 


1 10  ITALY. 

And  thou,  Sir  Knight,  hadst    raversed  hill  tM 

dale 
Squire-less. 

5elow  and  winding  far  away, 
A  narrow  glade  unfolded,  such  as  Spring 
Broiders  with  flowers,  and,  when  the  moon  is 

high. 
The  hare  delights  to  race  in,  scattering  round 
The  silvery  dews.     Cedar  and  cypress  threw 
Singly  their  length  of  shadow,  chequering 
The  greensward,  and,  what  grew  in  frequent 

tufts, 
An  underwood  of  myrtle,  that  by  fits 
Sent  up   a  gale   of  fragrance.     Through  tha 

midst, 
Reflecting,  as  it  ran,  purple  and  gold, 
A  rainbow's  splendour  (somewhere  in  the  east 
Rain-drops  were  falling  fast)  a  rivulet 
Sported  as  loth  to  go  ;  and  on  the  bank 
Stood  (in  the  eyes  of  one,  if  not  of  both, 
Worth  all  the  rest  and  more)  a  sumpter-mule 
WelMaden,  while  two  menials  as  in  haste 
Drew  from  his  ample  panniers,  ranging  round 
Viands  and  fruits  on  many  a  shining  salver, 
And  plunging  in  the  cool  translucent  wave 
Flasks  of  delicious  wine. 

Anon  a  horn 
Blew,  through  the  champaign  bidding  to  the 

feast. 
Its  jocund  note  to  other  ears  addressed, 
N<^t  ours  ;  and,  slowly  coming  by  a  path. 


ITALY.  Ill 

That,  ere  it  issued  from  an  ilex-grove, 

Was  seen  far  inward,  though  along  the  glade 

Distinguish' d  only  by  a  fresher  verdure, 

Peasants  approach'd,  one  leading  in  a  leash 

Beagles  yet  panting,  one  with  various  game 

In  rich  confusion  slung,  before,  behind. 

Leveret  and  quail  and  pheasant.    All  announced 

The  chase  as  over  ;  and  ere-long  appear'd 

Their  horses  full  of  fire,  champing  the  curb, 

For  the  white  foam  was  dry  upon  the  flank. 

Two  in  close  converse,  each  in  each  delighting, 

Their  plumage  waving  as  instinct  with  life  ; 

A  Lady  young  and  graceful,  and  a  Youth, 

Yet  younger,  bearing  on  a  falconer's  glove, 

As  in  the  golden,  the  romantic  time. 

His  falcon  hooded.     Like  some  spirit  of  air, 

Or  fairy-vision,  such  as  feign'd  of  old," 

The  Lady,  while  her  courser  paw'd  the  ground, 

Alighted  ;  and  her  beauty,  as  she  trod 

The  enamell'd  bank,   bruising  nor   herb   nor 

flower, 
That  place  illumined. 

Ah,  who  should  she  be, 
And  with  her  brother,,  as  when  last  we  met, 
(When  the  first  lark  had  sung   ere  half  wai 

said. 
And  as  she  stood,  bidding  adieu,  her  voice, 
So  sweet  it  was,  recall'd  me  Uke  a  spell) 
Who  But  Angelica  ? 

That  day  we  gave 
To  Plea3ure,  and,  unconscious  of  their  flight. 


.  12  ITALY. 

Another  and  another ;  hers  a  home 

Dropt  from  the  sky  amid  the  wild  and  rude, 

Loretto-Hke.     The  rising  moon  we  hail'd, 

Duly,  devoutly,  from  a  vestibuis 

Of  many  an  arch,  o'erwrought  and  lavishly 

With  many  a  wildering  dream  of  sylphs  and 

flowers, 
When  Raphael  and  his  school  from  Florence 

came, 
Filling  the  land  with  splendour — nor  less  oft 
Watch' d  her,  declining,  from  a  silent  dell, 
Not  silent  once,  what  time  in  rivalry 
Tasso,  Guarini,  waved  their  wizard- wands. 
Peopling  the  groves  from  Arcady,  and  lo, 
Fair    forms    appear' d,    murmuring   melodious 

verse, 
—Then,  in  their  day,  a  sylvan  theatre. 
Mossy  the  seats,  the  stage  a  verdurous  floor. 
The  scenery  rock  and  shrub-wood,  Nature'i 

own ; 
Nature  the  Architect. 

III. 
ROME. 

I  AM  in  Rome  !     Oft  as  the  morning-ray 
Visits  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry, 
Whence  this  excess  of  joy  ?   What  has  befallen 

me? 
And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies, 
Thou  art  in  Rome  !    A  thousand  busy  thcvglitg 


ITALY,  113 

Rush  on  my  mind,  a  thousand  images  ; 
And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a  race ! 

Tliou  art  in  Rome  !  the  City  that  so  long 
Reign'd  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world  ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw, 
And  trembled;  that  from  nothing,  from  the  least, 
The  lowliest  village  (what  out  here  and  there 
A  reed-roof  d  cabin  by  a  river-side  ?) 
Grew  into  everything  ;  and,  year  by  year, 
Patiently,  fearlessly  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea, 
Not  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise, 
Or  traveller  with  staiT  and  scrip  exploring, 
But  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot,  through  hosts 
Through  nations  numberless  in  battle-array, 
Each  behind  each,  each,  when  the  other  fell. 
Up  Eind  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  all. 

Thouart  in  Rome!  the  City,  where  the  Gauls. 
Entering  at  sun-rise  through  her  open  gates, 
And,  through  her  streets  silent  and  desolate, 
Marching  to  slay,  thought  they  saw  Gods,  not 

men  ; 
The  City  that,  by  temperance,  fortitude, 
And  love  of  glory,  tovver'd  above  the  clouds. 
Then  fell — but,  falling,  kept  the  highest  seat, 
And  in  her  loneliness,  her  pomp  of  woe, 
Where  now  she  dwells,  withdrawn  into  the  wild 
Still  o'er  the  mind  maintains,  from  age  to  age. 
Her  empire  undiminish'd. 

There,  as  though 
Grandeur  attracted  Grandeur,  are  beheld 
8 


114  ITALY. 

All    things    that    strike,    ennoble ^from    the 

depths 
Of  Egypt,  from  the  classic  fields  of  Greece, 
Her  groves,  her  temples — all  things  that  inspire 
Wonder,  delight !     Who   would  not   say   the 

Forms 
Most  perfect,  most  divine,  had  by  consent 
Flock'd  thither  to  abide  eternally, 
Within  those  silent  chambers  where  they  dwell, 
In  happy  intercourse  ? 

And  I  am  there  ! 
Ah,  little  thought  I,  when  in  school  I  sate, 
A  school-boy  on  his  bench,  at  early  dawn 
Glowing  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  Appian,  (50)  once  an  avenue 
Of  monuments  most  glorious,  palaces. 
Their  doors  seal'd  up  and  silent  as  the  night, 
The  dwellings  of  the  illustrious  dead — to  turn 
Toward  Tiber,  and,  beyond  the  City-gate, 
Pour  out  my  unpremeditated  verse. 
Where  on  his  mule  I  might  have  met  so  oft 
Horace  himself  (51) — or  climb  the  Palatine, 
Dreaming  of  old  Evander  and  his  guest. 
Dreaming  and  lost  on  that  proud  eminence, 
Longwhile  the  seat  of  Rome,  hereafter  found 
Less  than  enough  (so  monstrous  was  the  brood 
Engender'd  there,  so  Titan-like)  to  lodge 
One  in  his  madness  ;*  and,  the  summit  gain'd, 
Inscribe  my  name  on  some  broad  aloe-leaf, 
That  shoots  and  spreads  within  those  very  walls 

*Nero. 


ITALY.  Il5 

Wliere  Virgil  read  aloud  his  tale  divine, 
Where  his  voice  falter' d,  and  a  mother  wept 
Tears  of  delight ! 

But  what  a  narrow  space 
Just  underneath !     In  many  a  heap  the  ground 
Heaves,  as  though  Ruin  in  a  frantic  mood 
Had  done  hh  utmost.     Here  and  there  appears, 
As  left  to  shov/  his  handy- work  not  ours, 
An  idle  column,  a  half-buried  arch, 
A  wall  of  some  great  temple. 

It  was  once, 
And  long,  the  centre  of  their  Universe,  (52) 
The  Forum — whence  a  mandate,  eagle-wing'd, 
Went  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.     Let  us  descend 
Slowly.     At  every  step  nmch  may  be  lost 
The  \ery  dust  we  tread,  stirs  as  with  life  ; 
And  not  the  lightest  breath  that  sends  not  up 
Something  of  human  grandeur. 

We  are  come, 
Are  now  where  once  the  mightiest  spirits  met 
In  terrible  conflict ;  this,  while  Rome  was  free, 
The  noblest  theatre  on  this  side  Heaven! 
Here  the  first  Crutus  stood,  when  o'er  the 
c&rse 
Of  her  so  chaste  allmourn'd,  and  from  his  cloud 
Burst  like  a  God.     Here,  holding  up  the  knife 
That  ran  with  blood,  the  blood  of  his  own  child, 
Virginius  call'd  down  vengeance. — But  whenca 

spoke 
They  who  harangued  the  people  ;  turning  now 
To  the  tv/elve  tables,  (53)  now  wi»h  lifted  handa 


116  ITALY. 

To  the  Capitollne  Jove,  whose  fulgent  sliap© 
In  the  unclouded  azure  shone  far  otf, 
And  to  the  shepherd  on  the  Alban  mount 
Scem'd  like  a  star  new-risen  ?     Where  were 

ranged 
In  rough  array  as  on  their  element, 
The  beaks  of  thos-e  old  galleys,  destined  still  * 
To  brave  the  brunt  of  war — at  last  to  linow 
A  calm  far  worse,  a  silence  as  in  death? 
All  spiritless  ;  from  that  disastrous  hour 
When  he,  the  bravest,  gentlest  of  them  all,t 
Scorning  the  chains  he  could  not  hope  to  breaks 
Fell  on  his  sword  ! 

Along  the  Sacred  Way 
Hither  the  Triumph  came,  and,  winding  round 
With  acclamation,  and  the  martial  clang 
Of  instruments,  and  cars  laden  with  spoil, 
Stopt  at  the  sacred  stair  that  then  appear' d, 
Then  through  the  darkness  broke,  ample,  stari* 

bright, 
As  though   it  led  to  heaven.     'T  was  night 

but  now 
A  thousand  torches,  turning  night  to  day, 
Blazed,  and  the  victor,  springmg  from  his  seal, 
Went  up,  and,  kneeling  as  in  fervent  prayer, 
Enter'd  the  Capitol.    But  what  are  they, 
Who  at  the  foot  withdraw,  a  mournful  train 
In  fetters  ?    And  who,  yet  incredulous. 
Now  gazing  wildly  round,  now  on  his  sons, 

•  TheIlost."a.  t  INUrcus  Juiuus  jSrutua, 


rrALT.  117 

On  those  so  ycung,  well  pleased  with  all  they 

see,  (54) 
Staggers  along,  the  last  ? — They  are  the  fallen. 
Those   who   were  spared  to  grace  the  chariot- 
wheels  ; 
And  there  they  parted,  where  the  road  divides. 
The  victor  and  the  vanquish' d — there  withdrew; 
He  to  the  festal-board,  ivnd  they  to  die- 
Well  might  the  great,  the  mighty  of  the  world, 
They  who  were  wont  to  fare  deliciously, 
And  war  but  for  a  kingdom  more  or  less. 
Shrink  back,  nor  from  their  thrones  endure  to 

look. 
To  think  that  way  I     Well  might  they  in  their 

state 
Humble  themselves,  and  kneel  and  supplicate 
To  be  delivered  from  a  dream  like  this  ! 

Here  Cmcinnatus  pass'd,  his  plow  the  while 
Left  in  the  furrow,  and  how  many  more, 
Whose  laurels  fade  not,    who  still   walk   the 

earth, 
Consuls,  Dictators,  still  in  Curule  pomp 
Sit  and  decide  ;  and,  as  of  old  in  Rome, 
Name  but  their  names,  set  every  heart  on  fire  ! 

Here,  in  his  bonds,   he  whom  the  phalarui 
eavcd  not,* 

*  PCTseus. 


lis  ITAIV. 

The  last  on  Philip's  throne  ;  ar.d  the  Numidian,* 
So  soon  to  say,  stript  of  his  cumbrous  robe, 
Stript  to  the  skin,  and  in  his  nakedness 
Thrust  under-ground,  "  How  cold  this  bath  of 

yours  !" 
And  thy  proud  queen,  Palmyra,  through  tho 

sands  t 
Pursued,  o'ertaken  on  her  dromedary  ; 
Whose  temples,  palaces,  a  wondrous  dream 
That  passes  not  a.way,  for  many  a  league 
Illumine  yet  the  desert.     Some  invoked 
Death,  and  escaped  ;  the  Egyptian,  when  her 

asp 
Came  from  his  covert  under  the  green  leaf;  X 
And  Hannibal  himself;  and  she  who  said, 
Faking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  hands,  '^ 
"  Tell  him  I  would  it  had  come  yesterday  ; 
For  then  it  had   not  been  his  nuptial  gift." 

NoAV  all  is  changed ;  and  here,  as  in  the  wild. 
The  day  is  silent,  dreary  as  the  night ; 
None  stirring,  save  the  herdsman  and  his  herd, 
Savage  alike  ;  or  they  that  would  explore. 
Discuss  and  learnedly  ;  or  they  that  come, 
(And  there  are  many  who   have  cross' d  the 

earth) 
That  they  may  give  the  hours  to  meditation. 
And  wander,  often  saying  to  themselves 
**  This  was  the  Roman  Forum  '" 

♦  Jugurtha.   t  Zencbia.    jcipooatra.    §  Sophoniste. 


ITALY.  119 

IV. 

A  FUNERAL. 

■ '  Whence  this  delay  ?"  "  Along  the  crowded 
street 
A  Funeral  comes,  and  with  unusual  pomp. 
So  I  withdrew  a  little,  and  stood  still, 
While  it  went  by.    "  She  died  as  she  deserved," 
Said  an  Abate,  gathering  up  his  cloak, 
And  with  a  shrug  retreating  as  the  tide 
Flow'd  more  and  more. — "  But  she  was  beau- 
tiful!" 
Replied  a  soldier  of  the  Pontiff's  guard. 
*'  And  innocent  as  beautiful !"  exclaim' d 
A  Matron  sitting  in  her  stall,  hung  round 
With  garlands,  holy  pictures,  and  what  not? 
Her  Alban  grapes  and  Tusculan  figs  display'd 
In  rich  profusion.     From  her  heart  she  spoke  ; 
And  I  accosted  her  to  hear  her  story. 
"  The  stab,"  she  cried,  "  was  given  in  jealousy; 
But  never  fled  a  purer  spirit  to  heaven, 
As  thou  wilt  say,  or  much  my  mind  misleads. 
When  thou  hast  seen  her  face.     Last  night  at 

dusk 
When  on  her  way  from  vespers — None  were 

near, 
None  save  her  serving-boy,  vvho  knelt  and  wept, 
But  what  could  tears  avail  him,  when  she  fell- 
Last  night  at  dusk,  the  clock  then  striking  nine, 
Just  by  the  fountain — that  before  the  church, 
The  church  she  always  used,  St.  Isidore's— 
Alas,  I  knew  her  from  her  earliest  youth, 


120  ITALY. 

That  excellent  lady.     Ever  would  she  say, 
Good  even,  as  she  pass'd,  and  with  a  voice 
Gentle  as  theirs  in  heaven  !" — But  now  by  fiti 
A  dull  and  dismal  noise  assail'd  the  ear, 
A  wail,  a  chant,  louder  and  louder  yet ; 
And  now  a  strange  fantastic  troop  appear'd  ! 
Thronging,    they   carae — as   from   the   shades 

below ; 
All  of  a  ghostly  white  !     "Oh  say,     I  cried, 
"  Do  not  the  living  here  bury  the  dead  ? 
Do  Spirits  come  and  fetch  them  ?    What  are 

these. 
That  seem  not  of  this  World,  and  mock  the 

Day; 
Each  with  a  burning  taper  in  his  hand  ?" — 
"  It  is  an  ancient  Brotherhood  thou  seest. 
Such   their   apparel.     Through  the  long,  long 

line 
Look  where  thou  wilt,  no  likeness  of  a  man; 
The  living  mask'd,  the  dead  alone  uncover'd. 
But  mark" — And,  lying  on  her  funeral-couch, 
Like  one  asleep,  her  eye-lids  closed,  her  hands 
Folded  together  on  her  modest  breast, 
As  't  were  her  nightly  posture,  through  the 

crowd 
She  came  at  last — and  richly,  gaily  clad, 
As  for  a  birth-day  feast !    But  breathes  she  not  ? 
A  glow  is  on  her  cheek-  -and  her  lips  move  ! 
And  now  a  smile  is  there— -how  heavenly  sweet ! 
"  Oh  no!"  replied  the  Dame,  wiping  her  tears. 
But  with  an  accent  less  of  grief  than  anger, 
"  No,  sae  will  never,  nevet  wake  again  I" 


ITALY.  121 

Death,  when  we  meet  the  spectre  in  our 

walks, 
As  we  did  yesterday,  and  shall  to-morrow, 
Soon  grows  familiar — like  most  other  things, 
Seen,  not  observed  ;  but  in  a  foreign  clime. 
Changing   his   shape   to   something   new   and 

strange^ 
(And  through  ihe  world  he  changes  as  in  sport, 
Affect  he  greatness  or  humility) 
Knocks  at  the  heart.    His  form  and  fashion  here 
To  me,  I  do  confess,  reflect  a  gloom., 
A  sadness  round ;  yet  one  I  would  not  lose  ; 
Being  in  unison  with  all  :hings  else 
In  this,  this  land  of  shadows,  where  we  live 
More   in  past  time  than   present,    where   the 

ground 
League  beyond  league,  Hke  one  great  cemetery, 
Is  covered  o'er  with  mouldering  monuments  ; 
And,  let  the  living  wander  where  they  will, 
They  cannot  leave  the  footsteps  of  the  dead. 

Oft,  where  the  burial-rite  follows  so  fast 
The  agony,  oft  coming,  nor  from  far, 
Must  a  fond  father  meet  his  darling  child, 
(Him  who   at  parting  climb'd  his  knees   and 

clung) 
Clay-cold  and  wan,  and  to  the  bearers  cry, 
*'  Stand,  I  conjure  ye  !" 

Seen  thus  destitute, 
What  are  the  greatest  ?     They  must  speak  be* 

yond 
A  thousand  homilies.     When  Raphael  went. 


122  ITALY. 

His  heavenly  face  the  mirror  of  his  mind, 
His  mind  a  temple  for  all  lovely  things 
To  flock  lo  and  inhabit — when  He  went, 
Wrapt  in  his  sable  cloak,  the  cloak  he  wore. 
To  sleep  beneath  the  venerable  Dome,* 
By  those  attended,  who  in  life  had  loved. 
Had  worshipp'd,  following  in  his  steps  to  Fame, 
('Twas  on  an  April-day,  when  Nature  smiles) 
All  Rome  was  there.   But,  ere  the  march  began, 
Ere  to  receive  their  charge  the  bearers  came. 
Who  had  not  sought  him  ?  And  when  all  beheld 
Him,  where  he  lay,  how  changed  from  yester- 
day, 
Him  in  that  hour  cut  off,  and  at  his  head 
His  last  great  work ;  when,  entering  in,  they 

look'd 
Now  on  the  dead,  now  on  that  master-piece, 
Now  on  his  face,  lifeless  and  colourless, 
Then  on  those   forms  divine   that  lived  and 

breathed, 
And  w^uld  live  on  for  ages — all  were  moved ; 
And  sighs  burst  forth,  and  loudest  lamentations. 


NATIONAL  PREJUDICES 

"  Ano'.her  Assassination  !  This  venerable 
City,"  I  exclaimed,  "what  is  it,  but  as  it  be- 
•|an,  a  nest  of  robbers  and  murderers  ?  We 
must  away  at   sun-rise,    Luigi."     Pul  before 

♦The  Panllieon, 


MALT.  123 

min-rise  I  had  reflected  a  little,  and  in  the  sober- 
est prose.  My  indignation  was  gone ;  and, 
when  Luigi  undrew  my  curtain,  crying,  "Up, 
Signor,  up  !  The  horses  are  at  the  door." — 
"  liuigi,"  I  replied,  "if  thou  iovest  me,  draw 
ihe  curtain."* 

It  would  lessen  very  n:uch  the  severity  with 
which  men  judge  of  each  other,  if  they  would 
but  trace  effects  to  their  causes,  and  observe  the 
progress  of  things  in  the  moral,  as  accurately  as 
in  the  physical  world.  When  we  condemn 
millions  in  the  mass  as  vindictive  and  sangui- 
nary, we  should  remember  that,  wherever  Jus- 
tice is  ill-administered,  the  injured  will  redress 
themselves.  Robbery  provokes  to  robbery ; 
murder  to  assassination.  Resentments  become 
hereditary  ;  and  what  began  in  disorder,  ends 
as  if  all  Hell  had  broke  loose. 

Laws  create  a  habit  of  self-restraint,  not  only 
by  the  influence  of  fear,  but  by  regulating  in  its 
exfircise  the  passion  of  revenge.  If  they  overawe 
the  bad  by  the  prospect  of  a  punishment  cer- 
tain and  well-detined,  they  console  the  injured 
by  the  infliction  of  that  punishment ;  and,  as  the 
infliction  is  a  public  act,  it  excites  and  entails 
no  enmity.  The  laws  are  offended  ;  and  the 
community,  for  its  own  sake,  pursues  and  over- 
takes the  offender  ;  often  without  the  concurrence 
of  the  sufferer,  sometimes  against  his  wishes. 

♦  A  dialogue,  which  is  said  to  have  pas3PJ  many  yean 
ago  at  Lyons  (Alem.  da  Graimnonl,  I,  3.)  and  which 
may  still  be  heard  in  almost  every  hotellerie  ai  dav. break 


124  ITALY. 

Now  those  who  were  not  born,  like  ourselveu, 
to  such  advantages,  we  should  surely  rather  pity 
than  hate  ;  and,  when  at  length  they  venture  to 
turn  against  their  rulers,'*'  we  should  lament,  not 
wonder  at  their  excesses  ;  remembering  that  na- 
tions are  naturally  patient  and  long-suffering,  and 
seldom  rise  in  rebellion  till  they  are  so  degraded 
^sy  a  bad  government  as  to  be  almost  incapable 
of  a  good  one. 

"Hate  them,  perhaps,"  you  may  say,  we 
should  not ;  but  despise  them  we  must,  if  en- 
slaved, hke  the  people  of  Rome,  in  mind  as 
well  as  body  ;  if  their  religion  be  a  gross  and 
barbarous  superstition." — I  respect  knowledge; 
but  I  do  not  despise  ignorance.  They  think 
only  as  their  fathers  thought,  worship  as  they 
worshipped.  They  do  no  more ;  and  if  ours 
had  not  burst  their  bondage,  braving  imprison- 
ment and  death,  might  not  we  at  this  very  mo- 
ment have  been  exhibiting,  in  our  streets  and 
our  churches,  the  same  processions,  ceremonials, 
and  mortifications  ? 

Nor  should  we  require  from  those  who  are 
in  an  earlier  stage  of  society,  what  belongs  to  a 

*  As  the  descendants  of  an  illustrious  people  have  lately 
done.  Can  il  be  believed  thai  there  are  many  among  us, 
who,  from  a  desire  to  be  thought  superior  to  commonplace 
■entiments  and  vulgar  feelings,  arTeclan  indifference  to 
their  cause  !  "  If  the  Greeiis,"  they  say, "  had  the  probity 
of  other  nations— but,  they  are  false  to  a  pmvero  !"  And 
is  not  falsehojil  the  characteristic  of  slaves  }  Man  is  th« 
creature  of  circumstances  Free,  he  has  the  qualities  of 
•  freeman;  enslaved,  those  ofas;ave. 


ITALY.  121 

later  ?  They  are  only  where  we  once  were  ; 
and  why  hold  them  in  derision  ?  It  is  thei? 
business  to  cultivate  the  inferior  arts  before  they 
think  of  the  more  refined  ;  and  in  many  of  tna 
last  what  are  we  as  a  nation,  when  compared  to 
others  that  have  passed  away  ?  Unfortunately, 
it  is  too  much  the  practice  of  governments  to 
nurse  and  keep  ahve  in  the  governed  their  na- 
tional prejudices.  It  withdraws  their  attention 
from  what  is  passing  at  home,  and  makes  them 
better  tools  in  the  hands  of  Ambition.  Hence 
next-door  neighbours  are  held  up  to  us  from 
our  childhood  as  Tia^uraZ  enemies;  and  we  are 
urged  on  like  curs  to  worry  each  other.* 

In  like  manner  we  should  learn  to  be  just  to 
individuals.  Who  can  say,  "  In  such  circum- 
stances I  should  have  done  otherwise  ?"  Who, 
did  he  but  reflect  by  what  slow  gradations, 
often  by  how  many  strange  concurrences, 
we  are  led  astray ;  with  how  much  reluc- 
tance, how  much  agony,  how  many  efforts  to 
escape,  how  many  self-accusations,  how  many 
sighs,    how  many   tears — Who,   did    he   but 

♦  Candor,  generositj,  how  rare  are  they  in  the  world  ; 
and  how  much  is  lo  be  deplored  the  want  of  ihem! 
When  a  minister  in  our  parliament  conser.tg  at  last  to  a 
measure,  which,  for  many  reasons  perhaps  exisiingno 
longer, ne  had  before  refusel  to  adopt,  there  should  bg 
no  exultation  as  over  the  fallen,  no  taunt,  no  jeer.  How 
phen  may  the  resistance  be  contimzed  lest  an  enemy 
should  triumph,  and  the  result  of  conviction  be  received 
as  a  syiTiptona  of  fear } 


126  ITALY. 

reflect  for  a  moment,  would  have  the  heart  to 
cast  a  stone  ?  Fortunately,  these  things  aro 
known  to  Him,  from  whom  no  secrets  arc  hid- 
den ;  and  let  us  rest  in  the  assurance  that  hi$ 
judgments  are  not  as  ours  are. 

VI. 

THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  ROME. 

Have  none  appeared  as  tillers  of  the  ground, 
None  since  They  went — as  though  it  still  were 

theirs, 
And  they   might    come  and  claim  their  own 

again  ? 
Was  the  last  plow  a  Roman's  ? 

From  this  Seat, 
Sacred  for  ages,  whence,  as  Virgil  sings, 
The  Queen  of  Heaven,  alighting  from  the  sky, 
Look'd  down  and  saw  the  armies  in  array, 
Let  us  contemplate;  and,  where  dreams  frcm 

Jove 
Descended  on  the  sleeper,  where  perhaps 
Some  inspirations  may  he  lingering  still. 
Some  glimmerings  of  the  future  or  the  past, 
Await  fneir  influence  ;  silently  revolving 
The  changes  from  that  hour,  when  He  froni 

Troy 
Went  up  the  Tiber ;  when  refulgent  shields. 
No  6tranger£  to  the  iron-hail  of  war, 

♦iEneid,  xii.  134. 


ITALY.  187 

Stream' d  far  and  wide,  and  dashing  oars  were 

heard 
Among  those  woods  where  Silvia's  stag  was 

lying, 
His  antlers  gay  with  flowers;  among  those  woods 
Where,  by  the  Moon,  that  saw  and  yet  with- 
drew not, 
Two  were  so  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain, 
Two  lovely  in  their  lives,  nor  in  their  death 
Divided. 

Then,  and  hence  to  be  discern'd, 
How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay 
Along  this  plain,  each  with  its  schemes  of  power, 
Its  little  rivalships!    What  various  turns 
Of  fortune  there  ;  what  moving  accidents 
From  ambuscade  and  open  violence  ! 
Mingling,  the  sounds  came  up  ;  and  hence  how 

oft 
We  might  have  caught  among  the  trees  below, 
Glittering  with  helm  and  shield,   the  men  of 

Tibur  ;* 
Or  in  Greek  vesture,  Greek  their  origin. 
Some  embassy  ascending  to  Prceneste  ;t 
How  oft  descried,  v/ithout  thy  gates,  Aricia,t 
Entering  the  solemn  grove  for  sacrifice, 
Senate  and  People  ! — Each  a  busy  hive, 
Glowing  with  life  1 

But  all  ere-long  are  lost 
In  one.     We  look,  and  where  the  river  rolls 
Southward  its  shining  labyrinth,  in  her  strength 
A  City,  girt  with  battlements  and  towers, 

*  Tivoli.         t  Palesirina         t  La.  Riccia. 


^  ITALY. 

On  seven  small  hills  is  rising.     Round  about, 
At  rural  work,  the  Citizens  are  seen, 
None  unemploy'd  ;  the  noblest  of  them  all 
Binding  their  sheaves  or  on  their  threshing- 

Hoors, 
As  though  they  had  not  conquer'd.  Everywhere 
Some  trace  of  valour  or  heroic  virtue  ! 
Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  Horatii, 
I'here  are  the   Quintian  meadows.    Here  the 

hill  * 
How  holy,  where  a  generous  people,  twice, 
Twice  going  forth,  in  terrible  anger  sate 
Arm'd;  and,  their  wrongs  redress' d,  at  once 

gave  way, 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  sword  and  spear  thrown 

down, 
And  every  hand  uplifted,  every  heart 
Pour'd  out  in  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Once  again 
We  look ;  and,  lo,  the  sea  is  white  with  sails 
Innumerable,  wafting  to  the  shore 
Treasures  untold  ;  the  vale,  the  promontories, 
A  dream  of  glory  ;  temples,  palaces, 
Call'd  up  as  by  enchantment ;  aqueducts 
Among  the  groves  and  glades  rolling  along 
Rivers,  on  many  an  arch  high  over-head ; 
And  in  the  centre,  like  a  burning-sun. 
The  Imperial  City  I     They  have  now  subdued 
All  nations.  But  where  they  who  led  them  forth; 
Who,  when  at  length  released  by  victory, 
C tickler  and  spear  hung  up — bm  Lot  to  rust) 

♦  ^lous  Sacer. 


ITALY.  129 

Held  poverty  no  evil,  no  reproach, 

Living  on  little  with  a  cheerful  mind, 

The  Decii,  the  Fabricii  ?     Where  the  spade 

And   reaping-hook,    among   their   household- 

things 
Duly  transmitted  ?    In  the  hands  of  men 
Made  captive  ;  while  the  master  and  his  guests, 
RecUning,  quaff  in  gold,  and  roses  swim, 
Summer  and  winter,  through  the  circling  year. 
On  their  Falernian — in  the  hands  of  men 
Dragg'd  into  slavery,  v/ith  how  many  more 
Spared  but  to  die,  a  public  spectacle, 
In  combat  with  each  other,  and  required 
Yo  fall  with  grace,  with  dignity  to  sink, 
While  life  is  gushing,  and  the  plaudits  ring 
Faint  and  yet  fainter  on  their  failing  ear, 
As  models  for  the  sculptor. 

But  their  days. 
Their  hours  are  number'd.  Hark,  a  yell,  a  shriek, 
A  barbarous  dissonance,  loud  and  yet  louder. 
That  echoes  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea ! 
And  mark,  beneath  us,  like  a  bursting  cloud, 
The  battle  moving  onward  !     Had  they  slain 
AH,  that  the  earth  should  from  her  womb  bring 

forth 
New  nations  to  destroy  them  ?   From  the  depth 
Of  forests,  from  what  none  had  dared  explore, 
Regions  of  thrilling  ice,  as  though  an  ice 
Engendered,  multiplied,  they  pour  along, 
Shaggy  and  huge  !    Host  after  host,  they  come ; 
The  Goth,  the  Vandal  ;  and  again  the  Goth  ! 
Once  more  we  loo^k,  and  all  is  still  as  night, 


130  ITALY. 

All  desolate  !     Groves,  temples,  palaces, 
Swept  from  the  sight,  and  nothing  visible, 
Amid  the  sulphurous  vapours  that  exhale 
As  from  a  land  accurst,  save  here  and  there 
An  empty  tomb,  a  fragment  like  the  limb 
Of  some  dismember'd  giant.     In  the  midst 
A  City  stands,  her  domes  and  turrets  crown'J 
With  many  a  cross  ;  but  they,  that  issue  forth, 
Wander  like  strangers  who  had  built  among 
The  mighty  ruins,  silent,  spiritless  ; 
And  on  the  road,  where  once  we  might  have  met 
Caesar  and  Cato,  and  men  more  than  kings, 
We  meet,  none  else,  the  pilgrim  and  the  beggar. 

VII. 

THE  ROMAN  PONTIFFS. 
Those  ancient   men,  what  were  they,  who 

achieved 
A  sway  beyond  the  greatest  conquerors ; 
letting  their  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 
And,  through  the  world,    subduing,   chaining 

down 
The  free  immortal  spirit  ?     Were  they  not 
Mighty  magicians  ?    Theirs  a  wondrous  spell. 
Where  true  and  false  were  with  infernal  art 
Close-interwoven  ;  where  together  met 
Blessings  and  curses,  ihr^ats  and  promises; 
And  with  the  terrors  of  Futurity 
Mingled  whate'er  enchants  and  fascinates, 
Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric 
.Ind  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else ; 


ITALY.  131 

And  dazzling  light,  and  darkness  visible  i  (55) 
What  in  his  day  the  Syracusan  sought, 
Another  world  to  plant  his  engines  on, 
They  had  ;  and,  having  it,  like  gods,  not  men 
Moved  this  world  at  their  pleasure.    Ere  ihey 

cams, 
Their  shadows,  stretching  far  and  wide,  wera 

known, 
And  Two,  that  look'd  beyond  the  visible  sphere, 
Gave  notice  of  their  coming — he  who  saw 
The  Apocalypse  ;  and  he  of  elder  time, 
Who  in  an  awful  vision  of  the  night 
Saw  the  Four  Kingdoms.  Distant  as  they  were, 
Well  might  those  holy  men  be  filled  with  fear  ' 

VIIL 
CAIUS  CESTIUS. 
When  I  am  inclined  to  be  serious,  I  love  to 
wander  up  and  down  before  the  tomb  of  Caiua 
Cestius.  The  Protestant  burial-ground  is  there  ; 
and  most  of  the  little  monuments  are  erected  to 
the  young  ;  young  men  of  promise,  cut  off  when 
on  their  travels,  full  of  enthusiasm,  full  of  enjoy- 
ment ;  brides,  in  the  bloom  of  their  beauty,  on 
their  first  journey ;  or  children,  borne  from 
Itome  in  search  of  health.  Thi$  stone  was  placed 
by  his  fellow-travellers,  young  as  himself,  who 
will  return  to  the  house  of  his  parents  without 
him  ;  that,  by  a  husband  or  father,  nuw  in  his 
native  country.  His  heart  is  buried  in  that 
grave. 


193  ITALY. 

It  is  a  quit^t  and  sheltered  nook,  ccvered  in 
the  winter  with  violets  ;  and  the  Pyramid,  thai 
overshadows  it,  gives  it  a  classical  and  singular- 
ly solemn  air.  You  feel  an  interest  there,  a 
sympathy  you  were  not  prepared  for.  You  are 
yourself  in  a  foreign  land  ;  and  they  are  for  the 
most  part  your  country-men.  They  call  upon 
you  in  your  mother-tongue — in  English — in 
words  unknown  to  a  native,  known  only  to 
yourselves  :  and  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  that  old 
majestic  pile,  has  this  also  in  common  with 
them.  It  is  itself  a  stranger,  among  strangers.  It 
has  stood  there  till  the  language  spoken  around 
about  it  has  changed ;  and  the  shepherd,  born 
at  the  foot,  can  read  its  inscription  no  longer. 

IX. 

THE  NUN. 

*T  IS  over  ;   and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now 
On  her  hard  pillovs — there,  alas,  to  be 
Nightly,  through  many  and  many  a  dreary  hour 
Wan,  often  wet  with  tears,  and  (ere  at  length 
Her  place  is  empty,  and  another  comes) 
In  anguish,  in  the  ghastUness  of  death  ; 
Ilers  never  more  to  leave  those  mournful  wallay 
Even  on  her  bier. 

'  T  is  over ;  and  the  rite, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  harmony,  is  now 
Floating  before  her.     She  arose  at  home, 
To  be  the  show,  the  idol  of  the  day  ; 
Her  vesture  gorgeous,  and  her  starry  head— 


ITALY.  133 

No  locket,  bursting  in  the  midnight-sky, 
So  dazzling.     When  to-morrow  she  awakes, 
She  will  awake  as  though  she  still  was  there, 
Still  in  her  father's  house  ;  and  lo,  a  cell 
Narrow  and  dark,   nought  through  the  gloom 

discerned. 
Nought  save  the  crucifix,  the  rosary. 
And  the  grey  habit  lying  by  to  shroud 
Her  beauty  and  grace. 

When  on  her  knees  she  fell. 
Entering  the  solemn  place  of  consecration. 
And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chaunt 
Of  Psalms,  most  saint-like,  most  angelical, 
Verse  after  verse  sung  out,  how  holily  ! 
The  strain  returning,  and  still,  still  returning, 
Methought  it  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her. 
And  she  was  casting  otT  her  earthly  dross ; 
Yet  it  was  sad  as  sweet,  and,  ere  it  closed, 
Came  like  a  dirge.     When  her  fair  head  waa 

shorn, 
And  the  long  tresses  in  her  hands  were  laid. 
That  she  might  fling  them  from  her,   saying, 

"Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  and  worldly  things!" 
When,  as  she  stood,  her  bridal  ornaments 
Were,  one  by  one,  removed,  even  to  the  last, 
That  she  might  sav,  flinging  them  from  her, 

"  Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world!"    When  all  was 

chang'd 
And,  as  a  nun,  in  homeliest  guise  she  knelt, 
Veil'd  in  her  veil;  crown'd  with  her  silver  crown 


L34  iTAiif. 

Her  crown  ( f  lilies  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 
Well  might  her  strength  forsake  her,  and  her 

knees 
Fail  in  that  hour  !  Well  might  the  holy  man, 
He,  at  whose  feet  she  knelt,  give  as  by  stealth 
('T  was  in  her  utmost  need;  nor,  while  she  lives, 
Will  it  go  from  her,  fleeting  as  it  was)  (56) 

That  faint  but  fatherly  smile,  that  smile  of  love 
And  pity  ! 

Like  a  dream  the  whole  is  fled  ; 
And  they,  that  came  in  idleness  to  gaze 
Upon  the  victim  dress' d  for  sacrifice. 
Are  mingling  in  the  world  ;  thou  in  thy  cell 
Forgot,  Teresa.     Yet,  among  them  all, 
None  were  so  form'd  to  love,  and  to  be  loved, 
None  to  delight,  adorn  ;  and  on  thee  now 
A  curtain,  blacker  than  the  night,  is  droppV 
Forever  !    In  thy  gentle  bosom  sleep 
Feelings,  affections,  destined  now  to  die, 
To  wither  like  the  blossom  in  the  bud, 
Those  of  a  wife,  a  mother  ;  leaving  there 
A  cheerless  void,  a  chill  as  of  the  grave, 
A  languor  and  a  lethargy  of  soul, 
Death-like,  and  gathering  more  and  more,  till 

Death 
Comes  to  release  thee.     Ah,  what  now  to  thee, 
What  now  to  thee  the  treasure  of  thy  Youth  f 
As  nothing ! 

But  thou  canst  not  yet  reflect 
Calmly  ;  so  many  things,  strange  and  perverse. 
That  meet,  recoil,  and  go  but  to  return, 
The  monsfrous  birth  of  one  eventful  day. 


ITALY.  135 

Troubling  tliy  spirit — from  the  first,  at  dawn, 
The  rich  arraying  for  the  nuptial  feast, 
To  the  black  pall,  the  requiem.  (57) 

All  in   dm 
Revisit  thee,  and  round  thy  lowly  bed 
Hover,  uncall'd.  The  young  and  innocent  heart, 
How  is  it  beating  ?     Has  it  no  regrets  ? 
Discoverest  thou  no  weakness  lurking  there  ? 
But  thine  exhausted  frame  has  sunk  to  rest. 
Peace  to  thy  slumbers  I 


THE  FIRE-FLY. 

There   is   an   Insect,    that,   when   Evening 

comes, 
Small  though  he  be  and  scarce  distinguishable, 
Like  Evening  clad  in  soberest  livery, 
Unsheaths  his  wings,   and  through  the  woods 

and  glades 
Scatters  a  marvellous  splendour.    On  he  wheeb, 
Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy, 
Each  gush  of  light  a  gush  of  ecstacy  ; 
Nor  unaccompanied  ;  thousands  that  fling 
A  radiance  all  their  own,  not  of  the  day. 
Thousands  as  bright  as  he,  from  dusk  till  dawn, 
Soaring,  descending. 

In  the  mother's  lap 
Well  may  the  child  put  forth  his  little  hands, 
Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon; 
And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance 
By  brook  or  fountain-side,  in  many  a  braid 


136  'TJLLY 

Wreathing  her  golden  hair  v  ell  may  she  cry, 
"  Come  hithei  ;   and  the  shepherds,  gathering 

round, 
Shall  say,  Floretta  emulates  the  Night, 
Spangling  her  head  with  stars." 

Oft  have  I  met 
This  shining  race,  when  in  the  Tusculan  groves 
My  path  no  longer  glimmer'd;  oft  among 
Those  trees,  religious  once  and  always  green, 
That  yet  dream  out  their  stories  of  old  Rome 
Over  the  Alban  lake ;  oft  met  and  hail'd. 
Where  the  precipitate  Anio  thunders  down. 
And  through  the  surging  mist  a  poet's  house 
(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe  ?) 
Reveals  itself. 

Yet  cannot  I  forget 
Him,  who  rejoiced  me  in  those  walks  at  eve, 
My  earliest,  pleasantest ;  who  dwells  unseen, 
And  in  our  northern  clime,  when  all  is  still. 
Nightly  keeps  watch,  nightly  in  bush  or  brake 
His  lonely  lamp  rekindling.*    Unlike  theirs. 
His,    if   less   dazzling,    through   the   darkness 

knows 
No  intermission  ;  sending  forth  its  ray 
Through  the  green  leaves,  a  ray  serene  and 

clear 
As  Virtue's  own. 

XL 
FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 
It  was  in  a  splenetic  humour  that  I  sate  ir»a 
*Thegljw  worm 


ITALY.  137 

down  to  my  scanty  fare  at  Terracina  ;  and  how 
long  I  should  have  contemplated  the  lean 
thrushes  in  array  before  me,  I  cannot  say,  if  a 
cloud  of  smoke,  that  drew  the  tears  into  my 
eyes,  had  not  burst  from  the  green  and  leafy 
boughs  on  the  heai  th-stone.  "Why,"  I  ex- 
claimed, starting  up  from  the  table,  "  why  did 
I  leave  my  own  chimney-corner  ? — But  am  I  not 
on  the  road  to  Brundusium  ?  And  are  not  these 
the  very  calamities  that  befell  Horace  and  Virgil, 
and  Maecenas,  and  Plotius,  and  Varius  ?  Horace 
laughed  at  them — then  why  should  not  I  ? 
Horace  resolved  to  turn  them  to  account;  and 
Virgil — cannot  we  hear  him  observing,  that  to 
remember  them  will,  by  and  by,  be  a  pleasure?" 
My  soliloquy  reconciled  me  at  once  to  my  fate  ; 
and  when,  for  the  twentieth  time,  I  had  looked 
through  the  window  on  a  sea  sparkling  with 
innumerable  brilliants,  a  sea  on  which  the  he- 
roes of  the  Odyssey  and  the  Eneid  had  sailed, 
I  sat  down  as  to  a  splendid  banquet.  My 
thrushes  had  the  flavour  of  ortolans ;  and  I  ate 
with  an  appetite  I  had  not  known  before. 

"  Who,"  I  cried,  as  I  poured  out  my  last 
glass  of  Falernian,*  (for  Falernian  it  was  said  to 
be,  and  in  my  eyes  it  ran  bright  and  clear  as  a 
topaz-stone) — "who  would  remain  at  home, 
could  he  do  otherwise  ?  Who  would  submit  to 
tread  that  dull,  but  daily  round ;  his  hours  for- 

♦  We  were  now  within  a  few  hours  of  the  Campania 
Felix.  On  ihe  colour  and  flavour  of  Falernian,  consull 
Galen  ard  Dioscorides. 


138  ITALY. 

gotten  as  soon  as  spent?"  and,  opening  my 
journal-book,  and  dipping  my  yen  into  my 
ink-horn,  I  determined,  as  far  as  I  could,  to 
justify  myself  and  my  countrymen  in  wander- 
ing over  the  face  of  the  earth.  "  It  may  serve 
me,"  said  I,  *'  as  a  remedy  in  some  future  fit  ol 
the  spleen." 

Ours  is  a  nation  of  travellers  ;*  and  no  won- 
der, when  the  elements,  air,  water,  fire,  attend 
at  our  bidding,  to  transport  us  from  shore  to 
shore  ;  when  the  ship  rushes  into  the  deep,  her 
track  the  foam  as  of  some  mighty  torrent ;  and. 
in  three  hours  or  less,  we  stand  gazing  and 
gazed  at  among  a  foreign  people.  None  want 
an  excuse.  If  rich,  they  go  to  enjoy,  if  poor,  to 
retrench;  if  sick,  to  recover;  if  studious,  to 
learn ;  if  learned,  to  relax  from  their  studies. 
But  whatever  they  may  say,  whatever  they 
may  believe,  they  go  for  the  most  part  on  the 
same  errand  ;  nor  will  those  who  reflect,  think 
that  errand  an  idle  one. 

Almost  all  men  are  over-anxious.  No  sooner 
do  they  enter  the  world,  than  they  lose  that 
taste  for  natural  and  simple  pleasures,  so  re- 

♦  As  indeed  it  always  was,  contributing  those  of  every 
degree,  from  a  milors  wilJi  his  suite  to  him  whose  only 
attendant  is  his  shadow.  Coryate  in  1603  performed  })is 
journey  on  foot;  and  returning,  hung  up  his  shoes  in  his 
village  church  as  an  ex-voto.  Goldsmitli,  a  century  and 
a  half  aftprwards,  followed  in  nearly  the  same  path; 
playing  a  tune  on  iiis  flute  to  procure  admittance,  when- 
ever he  approached  a  cottage  at  night-fall. 


ITALY.  139 

markable  in  etrly  life.  Every  hour  do  they 
ask  themselves  what  progress  they  have  made 
in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  or  honour  ;  and  on  they 
go  as  their  fathers  went  before  them,  till,  weary 
and  sick  at  heart,  they  look  back  with  a  sigh  of 
regret  to  the  golden  time  of  their  childhood. 

Now  travel,  and  foreign  travel  more  particu- 
larly, restores  to  us  in  a  great  degree  what  we 
have  lost.  When  the  anchor  is  heaved,  we 
double  down  the  leaf;  and  for  a  while  at  least 
all  effort  is  over.  The  old  cares  are  left  cluster- 
ing round  the  old  objects  ;  and  at  every  step,  as 
we  proceed,  the  slightest  circumstance  amuses 
and  interests.  All  is  new  and  strange.  We 
surrender  ourselves,  and  feel  once  again  as 
children.  Like  them,  we  enjoy  eagerly ;  hke 
them,  when  we  fret,  we  fret  only  for  the  mo- 
ment ;  and  here  indeed  the  resemblance  is  very 
remarkable,  for  if  a  journey  has  its  pains  as 
well  as  its  pleasures  (and  there  is  nothing  un- 
mixed in  this  world)  the  pains  are  no  sooner 
over  than  they  are  forgotten,  while  the  plea- 
sures live  long  in  the  memory. 

Nor  is  it  surely  without  another  advantage. 
If  life  be  short,  not  so  to  many  of  us  are  its  days 
and  its  hours.  When  the  blood  slumbers  in 
the  veins,  how  often  do  we  wish  that  the  earth 
would  turn  faster  on  its  axis,  that  the  sun 
would  rise  and  set  before  it  does,  and,  to  escape 
from  the  weight  of  time,  how  many  follies,  how 
many  crijnes  are  committed !  Men  rush  on 
danger,    and  even  on  death.    Intrigue,  play^ 


140  ITALY. 

foreign  and  lomestic  broil,  such  are  their  re. 
sources ;  and,  when  these  things  fail,  they 
destroy  themselves. 

Now  in  travelling  we  multiply  events,  and 
innocently.  We  set  out,  as  it  were,  on  our  ad- 
ventures ;  and  many  are  those  that  occur  to  us, 
morning,  noon,  and  night.  The  day  we  come 
to  a  place  which  we  have  long  heard  and  read 
of,  and  in  Italy  we  do  so  continually,  it  is  an 
era  in  our  lives ;  and  from  that  moment  the 
very  name  calls  up  a  picture.  How  delightfully 
too  does  the  knowledge  flow  in  upon  us,  and 
how  fast  !*  Would  he  who  sat  in  a  corner  of 
his  library,  poring  over  books  and  maps,  learn 
more  or  so  much  in  the  time,  as  he  who,  with 
his  eyes  and  his  heart  open,  is  receiving  impres- 
sions, all  day  long,  Irom  the  things  themselves  ?t 
How  accurately  do  they  arrange  themselves  in 
our  memory,  towns,  rivers,  mountains  ;  and  in 
what  living  colours  do  we  recall  the  dresses, 
manners  and  customs  of  the  people  !  Our  sight 
is  the  noblest  of  all  our  senses.  '  It  fills  the 
mind  with  most  ideas,  converses  with  its  ob- 
jects at  the  greatest  distance,  and  continues 
longest  in  action  without  being  tired."     Our 

*  To  judge  at  once  of  a  nation,  we  have  only  to  throw 
our  eyes  on  the  markets  and  the  fields.  If  ihe  markets 
are  well  supplied,  the  fields  well  cuUivated,  all  is  right. 
If  otherwisia,  we  may  say,  and  say  truly,  these  people 
are  barbarous  or  oppressed. 

t  Assuredly  not,  if  the  last  has  laid  a  proper  foundation. 
Knowledge  makt  s  knowledge  as  money  makes  money. 
not  ever  perhaps  so  fast  as  on  a  journey. 


ITALY.  141 

mgki  is  on  the  alert  when  we  trav  jl ;  and  its 
exercise  is  theii.  so  dehgatful,  that  we  forget  the 
profit  in  the  pleasure. 

Like  a  river,  that  gathers,  that  refines  as  it 
runs,  like  a  spring  that  takes  its  course  through 
Bome  rich  vein  of  mineral,  we  improve  and 
imperceptibly — nor  in  the  head  only,  but  in  the 
heart.  Our  prejudices  leave  us,  one  by  one, 
Seas  and  mountains  are  no  longer  our  bounda- 
ries. We  learn  to  love,  and  esteem,  and  ad- 
mire beyond  them.  Our  benevolence  extends 
itself  with  our  knowledge.  And  must  we  not 
return  better  citizens  than  we  went  ?  For  the 
more  we  become  acquainted  with  the  institu- 
tions of  other  countries,  the  more  highly  must 
we  value  our  own. 


I  threw  down  my  pen  in  triumph.  "  The 
question,"  said  I,  "is  set  to  rest  for  ever. 
And  yet — " 

"And  yet — "  I  must  still  say.  The  wisest 
of  men  seldom  went  out  of  the  walls  of  Athens ; 
and  for  that  "vorst  of  evils,  that  sickness  of  the 
soul,  to  which  we  are  most  liable  when  most  at 
our  ease,  is  there  not  after  all  a  surer  and  yet 
pleasanter  remedy,  a  remedy  for  which  we  have 
only  to  cross  the  threshold  ?  A  Piedmontese 
nobleman,  into  whose  company  I  fell  at  Turin, 
had  not  long  before  experienced  its  efficacy  : 
and  his  story,  which  he  told  me  without  re- 
ferve,  was  as  follows  : 

"  1  was  weary  of  life,  and,  after  a  day,  such 


l42  ITALY. 

as  few  have  known  and  none  would  wish  to  re- 
member, was  hurrying  along  the  street  to  th« 
river,  when  I  felt  a  sudden  check.  I  turned 
and  beheld  a  little  boy,  who  had  caught  the 
(skirt  of  my  cloak  in  his  anxiety  to  solicit  my 
notice.  His  look  and  manner  were  irresistible. 
Not  less  so  was  the  lesson  he  had  learnt. 

"  '  There  are  six  of  us ;  and  we  are  dying  for 
want  of  food.' — *  Why  should  I  not,'  said  I  to 
myself,  '  relieve  this  wretched  family  ?  I  have 
the  means  ;  and  it  will  not  delay  me  many 
minutes.  But  what  if  it  does?'  The  scene  of 
misery  he  conducted  me  to,  I  cannot  describe. 
I  threw  them  my  purse ;  and  their  burst  of 
gratitude  overcame  me.  It  filled  my  eyes — i* 
went  as  a  cordial  to  my  heart.  'I  will  cal. 
again  to-morrow,'  I  cried.  '  Fool  that  I  was, 
to  think  of  leaving  a  world  where  such  pleasure 
was  to  be  had,  and  so  cheaply  1'  " 

XII. 

THE  FOUNTAIN. 

It  was  a  well 
Of  whitest  marble,  white  as  from  the  quarry; 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief, 
Greek  sculpture — in  some  earlier  day  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honour'd  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  fiil'd,  overflow'd  it ; 
Then  dash'd  away,  playing  the  prodigal. 
And  soon  was  lost — stealing  unseen,  unheard. 
Through  the  long  grass,  jind  round  the  twisted 
roots 


ITALY.  *43 

Of  aged  trees  ;  discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fresh  verdure.     Overcome  whh  he&t,  - 
I  threw  me  down  ;  admiring,  as  I  lay, 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing-place  for  birds, 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  child  a-Maying. 

The  sun  was  down,  a  distant  convent-bell 
Ringing  the  Angelas  ;  and  now  approach'd 
The  hour  for  stir  and  village-gossip  there, 
The  hour  Rebekah  came,  when  from  the  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The  stranger  and  his  camels.     Soon  I  heard 
Footsteps  ;  and  lo,  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  ages,  many  a  nymph  appear'd, 
/A.ppear'd  and  vanish'd,  bearing  on  her  head 
Her  earthen  pitcher.     It  call'd  up  the  day 
Ulysses  landed  there  ;  and  long  I  gazed, 
Liike  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time. 

At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Her  little  brother  dancing  down  before  her ; 
And  ever  as  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever, 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.     Stopoing  there, 
She  join'd  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  the  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink  ; 
And,  while  he  quench'd  his  thirst,  standing  on 

tiptoe, 
Look'd  down  upon  him  with  a  sister's  smile, 
Nor  stirr'd  till  he  had  d'^'^e,  fix'd  as  a  statub- 


144  ITALT. 

Then  liadst  thou  seen  them  as  they  stood, 
Canova, 
ThoU  hadst  endow' d  them  with  immortal  youth ; 
And  they  had  evermore  lived  undivided, 
Winning  all  hearts — of  all  thy  works  the  fairest, 

XIII. 

BANDITTI. 

'T  IS  a  wild  hfe,  fearful  and  full  of  change, 
The  mountain-robber's.     On  the  watch  he  lies, 
Levelling  his  carbine  at  the  passenger  ; 
And,  when  his  work  is  done,  he  dares  not  sleep. 

Time  was,  the  trade  was  nobler,  if  not  honest ; 
When  they  that  robb'd,  were  men  of  better  faith 
Than  kings  or  pontiffs,  when,  such  reverence 
The  Poet  drew  among  the  woods  and  wilds, 
A  voice  was  heard,  that  never  bade  to  spare, 
Crying  aloud,  "  Hence  to  the  distant  hills ! 
Tasso  approaches  ;  he,  whose  song  beguiles 
The  day  of  half  its  hours  ;  whose  sorcery 
Dazzles  the  sense,  turning  our  forest-glades 
To  lists  that  blaze  with  gorgeous  armory, 
Our  mountain-caves  to  regal  palaces. 
Hence,  nor  descend  till  he  or  his  are  gone. 
Let  him  fear  nothing." 

When  along  the  shore, 
And  by  the  path  that,  wandering  on  its  way, 
Leads  through  the  fatal  grove  where  TuUy  fell 
(Grey  and  o'ergrown,  an  ancient  tomb  is  there), 
He  came  and  they  vithdr.ow  :  they  were  a  race 


ITALY.  115 

Careless  of  life  iii  others  and  themselves, 
For  tacy  had  learnt  their  lesson  in  a  camp , 
But  not  ungenerous.     'T  is  no  longer  so. 
N.v,v  crafty,  cruel,  torturing  e'er  they  slay 
The  unhappy  captive,  and  with  bitter  jests 
blocking  misfortune  ;  vain,  fantastical, 
Wearing  whatever  gUtters  in  the  spoil  ; 
And  most  devout,  though  when  they  kneel  and 

pray, 
.With  every  bead  they  could  recount  a  murder. 
As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array, 
As  by  a  spell  they  vanish — theirs  a  band, 
Not  as  elsewhere  of  outlaws,  but  of  such 
As  sow  and  reap,  and  at  the  cottage-door 
Sit  to  receive,  return  the  traveller's  greeting, 
Now  in  the  garb  of  peace,  now  silently 
Arming  and  issuing  forth,  led  on  by  men 
Whose  names  on  innocent  lips  are  v/ords  of  fear, 
Whose  lives  have  long  been  forfeit. 

Some  there  are 
That,  ere  they  rise  to  this  bad  eminence, 
Lurk,  night  and  day,  t^e  plague-spot  visible. 
The  guilt  that  says,  Beware  ;  and  mark  we  now 
Him,  where  he  lies,  who  crouches  for  his  prey 
At  the  bridge-foot,  in  some  dark  cavity 
Scoop'd  by  the  waters,  or  some  gaping  tomb, 
Nameless  and  tenantless,  whence  the  red  fox 
Slunk  as  he  enter'd.     There  he  broods  in  spleen 
Gnawing    his  beard ;    his   rough  and    sinewy 

frame 
O'erwritten  with  the  story  of  his  life : 
On  his  wan  cheek  a  sabre-cut,  well-eam'd 
10 


146  n-ALY. 

In  foreign  warfare  ;  on  his  breast  the  brani 
Indelible,  burnt  in  when  to  the  port 
He  clank'd  his  chain,  among  a  hundred  moio 
Dragg'd  ignominiously  ;  on  every  limb 
Memorials  of  his  glory  and  his  shame, 
Stripes  of  the  lash  and  honourable  scars, 
And  channels  here  and  there  woni  to  the  bona 
By  galling  fetters. 

He  comes  slowly  forth, 
Unkennelling,  and  up  that  savage  dell 
ArDciously  looks  ;  his  cruise,  an  ample  gourd 
(Duly  replenish'd  from  the  vintner's  cask), 
Slung  from  his  shoulder ;  in  his  breadth  of  belt 
Two  pistols  and  a  dagger  yet  uncleansed, 
A  parchment  scrawFd  with  uncouth  characters, 
And  a  small  vial,  his  last  remedy, 
His  cure,  when  all  things  fail.  No  noise  is  heard, 
Save  when  the  rugged  bear  and  the  gaunt  wolf 
Howl  in  the  upper  region,  or  a  fish 
Leaps  in  the  gulph  beneath. — But  now  he  kneels 
And  (like  a  scout  when  listening  to  the  tramp 
Of  horse  or  foot)  lays  his  experienced  ear 
Close  to  the  ground,  then  rises  and  explores, 
Then  kneels  again,  and,  his  short  rifle-gun 
Against  his  cheek,  waits  patiently. 

Two  Monke, 
Portly,  grey-headed,  on  their  gallant  steeds, 
Descend  where  yet  a  mouldering  cross  o'erhanga 
The  grave  of  one  that  from  the  piecipice 
Fell  in  an  evil  hour.     Their  bridle-bells 
Ring  merrily  ;  and  many  a  loud,  long  laugh 
Re-echoes  ;  but  at  once  the  sounds  are  losi. 


ITALY.  147 

Unconscious  of  the  good  in  stord  below, 
The  holy  fathers  have  turn'd  off,  and  now 
Cross  the  brown  heath,  ere-long  to  wag  their 

beards 
Before  my  lady-abbess,  and  discuss 
Things  only  known  to  the  devout  and  pure 
O'er  her  spiced  bowl — then  shrive  the  sisterhood, 
Sitting  by  turns  with  an  inclining  ear 
In  the  confessional. 

He  moves  his  lips 
As  with  a  curse — then  paces  up  and  down, 
Now  fast,  now  slow,  brooding  and  muttering  on; 
Gloomy  alike  to  him  the  past,  the  future. 

But  hark,  the  nimble  tread  of  numerous  feet : 
— 'T  is  but  a  dappled  herd,  come  down  to  slake 
Their  thirst  in  the  cool  wave.  He  turns  and  aims — 
Then  checks  himself,  unwiUing  to  disturb 
The  sleeping  echoes. 

Once  again  he  earths  ; 
Slipping  away  to  house  with  them  beneath, 
His  old  companions  in  that  hiding-place. 
The  bat,   the  toad,  the   blind-worm,  and  the 

newt ; 
And  hark,  a  footstep,  firm  and  confident, 
As  of  a  man  in  has^e.     Nearer  it  draws ; 
And  now  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  den. 
Ha!  'tis  a  comrade,  sent  to  gather  in 
The  band  for  some  great  enterprise. 

Who  wants 
A  sequel,  may  read  on.  The  unvarnish'd  tale, 
That  follows,  will  supply  the  place  of  one. 


148  ITALY. 

'T  was  told  ;  le  by  the  Marquis  of  Ravina, 
When  in  a  blustering  night  he  shelter'd  me 
In  that  brave  castle  ot  his  ancestors 
O'er  Garigliano,  and  is  such  indeed 
As  every  day  brings  with  it — in  a  land 
Where  laws  are  trampled  on,  and  lawless  raea 
Walk  in  the  sun ;  but  it  should  not  be  lost, 
For  it  may  serve  to  bind  us  to  our  country. 

XIV. 

AN  ADVENTURE. 

Three  days  they  lav  in  ambush  at  my  gate, 

Tiien  sprung  and  led  me  capiive.     Many  a  wild 

We  traversed  ;  but  Rusconi,  'twas  no  less, 

March 'd  by  my  fide,    and,  when  I  thirsted, 

climb'd 
The  cliffs  for  waiw  ;  though,  whene'er  he  spoke, 
'T  was  briefly,  sullenly  ;  and  on  he  led, 
Distinguished  only  by  an  amulet, 
That  in  a  golden  chain  hung  from  his  neck, 
A  crystal  of  rare  virtue.     N  ight  fell  fast, 
When  on  a  heath,  black  and  immeasurable, 
He  turn'd  and  bade  them  halt.     'T  was  where 

the  earth 
Heaves  o'er  the  dead — where  erst  some  Alaric 
Fought  hiS  last  fight,  and  every  warrior  threw 
A  stone  to  tell  for  ages  where  he  lay. 

Then  all  advanced,  and,  ranging  in  a  square. 
Stretch' d  forth  their  arms  as  on  the  holy  cross 
From  each  to  each  their  sable  cloaks  extending, 


ITALY.  149 

That,  like  the  solemn  hangings  of  a  tent, 
Cover'd  us  round  ;  and  in  the  midst  I  stood, 
Weary  and  faint,  and  tace  to  face  withonej 
Whose  voice,    whose  look  dispenses  life   and 

death, 
Whose  heart  knows  no  relentings.     Instantly 
A  light  was  kindled,  and  the  Bandit  spoke. 
'•I  know  thee.     Thou  hast  sought  us,  for  the 

sport 
Slipping  thy  blood -hounds  with  a  hunter's  cry, 
And  thou  hast  found  at  last.     Were  I  as  thou, 
I  in  thy  grasp  as  thou  art  now  in  ours, 
Soon  should  I  make  a  midnight-spectacle, 
Soon,  limb  by  limb,  be  mangled  on  a  wheel, 
Then  gibbeted  to  blacken  for  the  vultures. 
But  I  would  teach  thee  better — how  to  spare. 
Write  as  I  dictate.     If  thy  ransom  comes. 
Thou  livest.     If  not — but  answer  not,  I  pray, 
Lest  thou  provoke  me.  I  may  strike  thee  dead  ; 
And  know,  young  man,  it  is  an  easier  thing 
To  do  it  than  to  say  it.     Write,  and  thus." — 

I  wrote.  '"Tiswell,"  he  cried.  "  Apeasant- 

boy, 
Trusty  and  swift  of  foot,  shall  bear  it  hence. 
Meanwhile  lie  down  and  rest.     This  cloak  of 

mine 
Will  serve  thee  ;  it  has  weather'd  many  a  storm." 
The   watch  was   set ;  and  twice  it   had  been 

changed, 
When  morning  broke,  and  a  wild  bird,  a  hawk. 
Flew  in  a  circle,  screaming.    I  look'd  up 


150  ITAL7. 

And  all  were  gone,  save  hJm  who  new  kepi 

guard, 
And  on  his  arms  .ay  musing.  Young  he  seem'd, 
And  sad,  as  though  he  could  indulge  at  will 
Some  secret  sorrow.     "  Thou  shrink' st  back," 

he  said. 
"  Well  may' St  thou,  lying,  as  thou  dost,  so  near 
A  ruffian — one  for  ever  link'd  and  bound 
To  guilt  and  infamy.     There  was  a  time 
When  he  had  not  perhaps  been  deem'd  unwor- 
thy, 
When  he  had  watch'd  that  planet  to  its  setting, 
And  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  hieanest  thing 
That  Nature  has  given  birth  to.  Now  'tis  past. 

"  Wouldst  thou  know  more  ?    My  story  is  an 

old  one. 
I  loved,  was  scorn'd  ;   I  trusted,  was  betray'd; 
And  in  my  anguish,  my  necessity, 
Met  with  the  fiend,  the  tempter — in  Rusconi. 
'  Why  thus  ?'  he  cried.  '  Thou  wouldst  be  free, 

and  darest  not. 
Come  and  assert  thy  birth-right  while  thou  canst, 
A  robber's  cave  is  better  than  a  dungeon; 
And  death  itself,  what  is  it  at  the  worst. 
What,   but   a  harlequin's    leap?'    Him  I  had 

known, 
Had  served  with,  suffer' d  with ;  and  on  the  walls 
Of  Capua,  when  the  moon  went  down,  I  swore 
Allegiance  on  his  dagger. 

Dost  thou  ask 
How  I  have  kept  my  oath  ?  Thou  shaltbe  told, 


ITALT.  151 

Cost  what  it  may. — But  grant  me,  I  implore, 
Grant  me  a  j  assport  to  some  distant  land, 
That  I  may  never,  never  more  be  named. 
Thou  wilt,  J  know  thou  wilt. 

Two  months  ago, 
When  on  a  vineyard-hill  we  lay  conceal' d 
And  scattered  up  and  down  as  we  were  wont, 
I  heard  a  damsel  suiging  to  herself, 
And  soon  espied  her,  coming  all  alone, 
In  her  first  beauty.     Up  a  path  she  came 
Leafy  and  intricate,  singing  her  song, 
A  song  of  love,  by  snatches  ;  breaking  off 
If  but  a  tlower,  an  insect  in  the  sun 
Pleased  for  an  instant ;  then  as  carelessly 
The  strain  resuming,  and,  where'er  she  stopt, 
Rising  on  tiptoe  underneath  the  boughs 
To  pluck  a  grape  in  very  wantonness. 
Her  look,  her  mien  and  maiden-ornaments 
Show'd  gentle    birth  ;    and,  step  by  step,  she 

came 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  dreadful  snare. 
None  else  were  by ;  and,  as  I  gazed  unseen, 
Ber  youth,  her  innocence  and  gaiety 
Went  to  my  heart ;  and,  starting  up,  I  cried, 
*Fly — for  your  life  r    Alas,  she  shriek'd,  sho 

fell; 
And.  as  I  caught  her  falhng,  all  rush'd  forth. 

A  Wood-nymph  I'  said  Rusconi.  '  By  the  light. 
Lovely  as  Hebe  !  Lay  her  in  the  shade.* 
I  heard  him  not.     I  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

*  What,'  he  exclaim'd  with  a  malicious  smile, 

•  Wouldst  thou  rebel  ?'    1  did  as  he  required. 


158  ITALY. 

•  Now  bear  her  hence  fo  the  wcli-hcad  below, 
A  few  cold  drops  will  animate  this  marble. 
Go  !  'T  is  aji  office  all  will  envy  thee ; 

3ut  (hou  bast  earn'd  it.' 

As  I  stagger'd  down, 
Un-v/illing  to  surrender  her  sweet  body  ; 
Her  golden  hair  dishevell'd  on  a  neck 
Of  snow,  and  her  fair  eyes  closed  as  in  sleep, 
Frantic  with  love,  with  hate,  '  Great  God!'  I 

cried 
(I  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  pray) 

*  Why  may  I  not,  while  yet — while  yet  I  can, 
Release  her  from  a  thraldom  worse  than  death  ?' 
'Twas   done   as  soon    as   said.     I  kiss'd   hei 

brow 
And  smote  her  with  my  dagger.     A  short  cry 
She  utter'd,  but  she  stirr'd  not ;  and  to  heaven 
Her  gentle  spirit  fled.     'T  was  v/here  the  path 
In  its  descent  tnrn'd  suddenly.     No  eye 
Observed  me,  though  their  steps  were  following 

fast. 
But  soon  a  yell  broke  forth,  and  all  at  once 
Levell'd  their  deadly  aim.     Then  I  had  ceased 
To  trouble  or  be  troubled,  and  had  now 
^Would  I  were  there  !)  been  slumbering  in  my 

grave 
Had  not  Rusconi  with  a  terrible  shout 
Thrown  himself  in  between  us,  and  exclaim'd, 
Grasping  my  arm,  '  'T  is  bravely,  nobly  done  I 
Is  it  for  deeds  like  these  thou  wear'st  a  svvord  ? 
Was  this  the  business  that  thou  earnest  upon? 
—But  't  is  his  lirst  oife  rce,  and  let  it  pass. 


ITALY.  153 

Like  the  young  tiger  he  has  tasted  blood, 
And  may  do  mach  hereafter.    He  can  strike 
Home  to  the  hih.'     Then  in  an  undertone, 
'Thus  wouldst  thou  justify  the  pledge  I  gave, 
When  in  the  eyes  of  aJl  I  read  distrust  ? 
For  once,'  and  on  his  cheek,  methought,  I  saw 
The  blush  of  virtue,  '  I  will  save  thee,  Albert ; 
A /an.  I  cannot.'  " 

Ere  his  tale  was  told, 
A.-»  on  the  heath  we  lay,  my  ransom  came  ; 
And  in  six  days,  with  no  ungrateful  mind, 
Albert  was  sailing  on  a  quiet  sea. 
— But  the  night  wears,  and  thou  art  much  in 

need 
Of  rest.     The  young  Antonio  with  his  torch, 
Is  waiting  to  conduct  thee  to  thy  chamber. 

XV. 

NAPLES. 

This  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth.* 
Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven.     Not  a  grov?. 
Citron,  or  pine,  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 
Sea-worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vine. 
But  breathes  enchantment.  Not  a  cliff  but  llinga 
On  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight, 
Some  cabin-roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers, 
Some  ruin'd  temple  or  fallen  monument, 
To  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by. 
And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there   mine  to  glide, 

•  Un  pezzo  di  cielo  caduto  in  lerm.—SjiTmazaro. 


iS'i  ITALV. 

FroiK  daybreak,  when  the  mountain  Dales  his  £je 
Yet  more  and  more,  and  from  the  mountain-top, 
Till  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends, 
Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  Irom  Ararat, 
When  he,  the  Patriarch,  who  escaped  the  Flood. 
Was  with  his  liousehold  sacrificing  there — 
From  day-break  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best. 
When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing-boats  come  forth, 
Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow. 
And,  when  the  nets  are  thrown,  the  evening 

hymn 
Steals  o'er  the  trembling  waters. 

Everywhere 
Fable  and  truth  have  shed,  in  rivalry, 
Each  her  peculiar  influence.     Fable  came, 
And   laugh'd    and    sung,    arraying   Truth    in 

flowers. 
Like  a  young  child  her  grandam.     Fable  came ; 
Earth,  sea  aiid  sky  reflecting,  as  she  flew, 
A  thousand,  thousand  colours  not  their  own  : 
And  at  her  bidding   lo  !  a  dark  descent 
To  Tartarus,  and  those  thrice  happy  fields, 
Those  fields  with  ether  pure  and  purple  light 
Ever  invested,  scenes  by  him  described,* 
Who  here  was  wont  to  wander,  record 
What  they  reveal' d,  and  on  the  western  shore 
Sleeps  in  a  silent  grove,  o'erlooking  thee, 
Beloved  Parthenope. 

Yet  here,  methinks, 
Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shape 

*  Virgil. 


ITALY.  154 

Filling  the  mind  by  turns  witli  awe  and  Icve, 
By  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstacy, 
And  soberest  meditation. 

Here  the  vines 
Wed,  each  her  elm,  and  o'er  the  golden  grain 
tiang  their  luxuriant  clusters,  chequering 
The  sunshine;  where,  when  cooler  shadows  fall; 
And  the  mild  moon  hei  .airy  net-work  weaves, 
The  lute,  or  mandoline,  accompanied 
By  many  a  voice  yet  sweeter  than  their  own, 
Kindles,  nor  slowly  ;  and  the  dance*  displays 
The  gentle  arts  and  witcheries  of  love, 
Its  hopes  and  fears  and  feignings,  till  the  youth 
Drops  on  his  knee  as  vanquish' d,  and  the  maid, 
Her  tambourine  uplifting  with  a  grace, 
Nature's  and  Nature's  only,  bids  him  rise. 

But  here  the  mighty  Monarch  underneath, 
He  in  his  palace  of  fire,  diffuses  round 
A  dazzling  splendour.     Here,  unseen,  unheard. 
Opening  another  Eden  in  the  wild, 
He   works  his   wonders  ;    save,  when  issuing 

forth 
In  thunder,  he  blots  out  the  sun,  the  sky, 
And,  minghng  all  things  earthly  as  in  scorn, 
Exalts  the  valley,  lays  the  mountain  low. 
Pours  many  a  torrent  from  his  burning  lake, 
And  in  an  hour  of  universal  mirth. 
What  time  the  trump  proclaims  the  festival, 
Buries  some  capital  city,  there  to  sleep 

*  The  Tai-anlella. 


156  ITALY. 

The  deep  of  ages — till  a  plow,  a  spade 
Discloce  the  secret,  and  the  eye  of  day 
Glares  coldly  on  the  streets,  the  skeletons, 
Each  in  his  place,  each  in  his  gay  attire, 
And  eager  to  enjoy. 

Let  us  go  round, 
And  let  the  sail  be  slack,  the  course  be  slow, 
That  at  our  leisure,  as  we  coast  along. 
We  may  contemplate,  and  from  every  scene 
Receive  its  influence.     The  Cumasan  towers, 
There  did  they  rise,  sun-gilt ;    and  here  tbj 

groves 
Delicious  Baiae.    Here  (what  would  they  not  ? 
The  masters  of  the  earth,  unsatisfied, 
Built  in  the  sea  ;  and  now  the  boatman  steers 
O'er  many  a  crypt  and  vault  yet  glimmerings 
O'er  many  a  broad  and  indestructible  arch, 
The  deep  foundations  of  their  palaces  ; 
Nothing  now  heard  ashore,  so  great  the  change, 
Save  when  the  sea-mew  clamours,  or  the  owl 
Hoots  in  the  temple. 

What  the  mountainous  Isle,* 
Seen  in  the  South?    'Tis  where  a  Monster 

dwelt,t 
Who  hurl'd  his  victims  from  the  topmost  clifT; 
Then  and  then  only  merciful,  so  slow, 
So  subtle  were  the  tortures  they  endured. 
Fearing  and  fear'd  he  lived,  cursing  and  curs' d ; 
And  still  the  dungeons  in  the  rock  breathe  out 
Darkness,  distemper. — S;range,  that  one  so  vile 

♦  Cnpreae.  t  T/berius. 


ITALY.  157 

Should  from  his  den  strike  terror  through  the 

world ! 
Should,  whore  withdrawn  in  his  decrepitude, 
Say  to  the  noblest,  be  they  where  they  might, 
"  Go  from  the  earth  !"  and  from  the  earth  they 

went. 
Yet  such  things  were — and  will  be,  when  man- 
kind. 
Losing  all  virtue,  lose  all  energy  ; 
And  for  the  loss  incur  the  penalty, 
Trodden  down  and  trampled. 

Let  us  turn  the  prow, 
And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die,* 
Traverse  this  valley  of  waters,  landing  where 
A  waking  dream  awaits  us.     At  a  step 
Two   thousand   years   roll  backward,  and  we 

stand. 
Like  those  so  long  within  that  awful  place, t 
Immovable,  nor  asking,  Can  it  be  ? 

Once  did  I  linger  there  alon^,  till  day 
Closed,  and  at  length  the  calm  of  twilight  came, 
So  grateful,  yet  so  solemn  !     At  the  fount. 
Just  where  the  three  ways  meet,  I  stood  and 

look'd, 
['T  was  near  a  noble  house,  the  house  of  Pansa), 
And  all  was  still  as  in  the  long,  long  night 
That  follow'd,  when  the  shower  of  ashes  fell, 
When  they  that  sought  Pompeii,  sought  in  vain; 
It  was  not  to  be  found.     But  now  a  ray, 

•  The  Elder  Pliny.  t  PoinpeU. 


158  I^ALT. 

Bright  a.id    yet  brighter,   on    the    pavement 

glanced, 
And  on  the  wheel-track  worn  for  centuries, 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  from  side  to  side, 
O'er  which  the  maidens,  with  iheir  water-urna, 
Were  wont  to  trip  so  lightly.     Full  and  clear, 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  at  once  reveal'd 
The  name  of  every  dweller,  and  his  craft ; 
Shining  throughout  with  an  unusual  lustre, 
And  hghting  up  this  City  of  the  Dead. 

Here  lived  a  miller ;  silent  and  at  rest 
His  mill-stones  now.     In  old  companionship 
Still  do  they  stand  as  on  the  day  he  went, 
Each  ready  for  its  office — but  he  comes  not. 
And  here,  hard  by,  (where  one  in  idleness 
Has  stopp'd  to  scrawl  a  ship,  an  armed  man; 
And  in  a  tablet  on  the  wall  we  read 
Of  shows  ere  long  to  be)  a  sculptor  wrought, 
Nor  meanly  ;  blocks,  half  chisell'd  into  life, 
Waiting  his  call.     Here  long,  as  yet  attests 
The  trodden  floor,  an  olive-merchant  drew 
from  many  an  ample  jar,  no  more  replenisli'd  ; 
And  here  from  his  a  vintner  served  his  guests 
Largely,  the  stain  of  his  o'erflowing  cups 
Fresh  on  the  marble.     On  the  bench,  beneath, 
They  sate,  and  quafT'd,  and  look'd  on  them 

that  pass'd. 
Gravely  discussing  the  last  news  from  Rome. 

But  lo,  engraven  on  a  threshold  stone, 
That  word  of  courtesy,  so  sacred  once. 


ITALY.  155 

Hail .     At  a  master's  greeting  we  may  enter. 

And  lo,  a  fairy  palace  !  everywhere, 

As  through  the  courts  and  chambers  we  advance, 

Floors  of  mosaic,  walls  of  arabesque, 

And  columns  clustering  in  patrician  splendour. 

But  hark,  a  footstep  !    May  we  not  intrude  ? 

And  now,  methinks,  I  hear  a  gentle  laugh, 

And  gentle  voices  mingling  as  in  converse  ! 

— And  now  a  harp-string  as  struck  carelessly, 

And  now — along  the  corridoi  it  comes^  ■ 

I  cannot  err,  a  filling  as  of  baths  ! 

— Ah,  no,  't  is  but  a  mockery  of  the  sense, 

Idle  and  vain  1     We  are  but  where  we  were ; 

Still  wandering  in  a  City  of  the  Dead  ! 

XVI. 

THE  BAG  OF  GOLD. 

I  DINE  very  often  with  the  good  old  Cardinal 
***  and,  I  should  add,  with  his  cats  ;  for  they 
always  sit  at  his  table,  and  are  much  the  gravest 
of  the  company.  His  beaming  countenance 
makes  us  forget  his  age  ;  nor  did  I  ever  see  it 
clouded  till  yesterday,  when,  as  we  were  con- 
templating the  sunset  from  his  terrace,  he  hap- 
pened, in  the  course  of  our  conversation,  to 
allude  to  an  affecting  circumstance  in  his  early 
life. 

He  had  just  left  the  University  of  Palermo 
and  was  entering  the  army,  when  he  became 
acquainted  with  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty 
and  merit,  a  Sicilian  of  a  family  as  illostrious  aa 


!<>0  ITALY. 

his  own.  Living  near  each  other,  they  werv 
often  together ;  and,  at  an  age  like  theirs, 
friendship  soon  turns  to  love.  But  his  father, 
for  what  reason  I  forget,  refused  hia  corvsent  to 
their  union  ;  till,  alarmed  at  the  declining  health 
of  his  son,  lie  promised  to  oppose  it  no  longer, 
if,  after  a  separation  of  three  years,  they  con- 
tinued as  much  in  love  as  ever. 

Relying  on  that  promise,  he  said,  I  set  out  on 
a  long  journey,  but  in  my  absence  the  usual 
arts  were  resorted  to.  Our  letters  were  inter- 
cepted ;  and  false  rumours  were  spread — first 
of  my  indifference,  then  of  my  inconstancy, 
then  of  my  marriage  with  a  rich  heiress  of 
Sienna;  and,  when  at  length  I  returned  to 
make  her  my  own,  I  found  her  in  a  convent  of 
Ursuline  Nuns.  She  had  taken  the  veil ;  and 
I,  said  he  with  a  sigh — what  else  remained  for 
me  ? — I  went  into  the  church. 

Yet  many,  he  continued,  as  if  to  turn  the 
conversation,  very  many  have  been  happy 
though  we  were  not ;  and,  if  I  am  not  abusing 
an  old  man's  privilege,  let  me  tell  you  a  story 
with  a  better  catastrophe.  It  was  told  to  me 
when  a  boy  ;  and  you  may  not  be  unwilling  to 
hear  it,  for  it  bears  some  resemblance  to  that  of 
the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  a  pavilion  that  com- 
manded one  of  the  noblest  prospects  imaginable ; 
the  mountains,  the  sea,  and  the  islands  illumi- 
nated by  the  last  beams  of  day ;  and,  sitting 
down  there,  he  proceeded  with  his  usual  viva- 


ITALY.  161 

city ;  for  the  sadness,  which  had  come  across 
him,  was  gone. 

There  Uved  in  the  fourteenth  century,  near 
Bologna,  a  widow-lady  of  the  Lambertini  family, 
called  Madonna  Lucrezia,  who  in  a  revolution 
of  the  state  had  known  the  bitterness  of  poverty, 
and  had  even  begged  her  bread  ;  kneeling  day 
after  day  like  a  statue  at  the  gate  of  the  cathe- 
dral ;  her  rosary  in  her  left  hand,  and  her  right 
held  out  for  charity  ;  her  long  black  veil  con- 
cealing a  face  that  had  once  adorned  a  court, 
and  had  received  the  homage  of  as  many  son- 
nets as  Petrarch  has  written  on  Laura. 

But  fortune  had  at  last  relented  ;  a  legacy 
from  a  distant  relation  had  come  to  her  relief; 
and  she  was  now  the  mistress  of  a  small  inn  at 
the  foot  of  the  Appennines ;  where  she  enter- 
tained as  well  as  she  could,  and  vvhere  those 
only  stopped  who  were  contented  with  a  little. 
The  house  was  still  standing,  when  in  my 
youth  I  passed  that  way  ;  though  the  sign  of 
the  White  Cross,  the  Cross  of  the  Hospitallers, 
was  no  longer  to  be  seen  over  the  door ;  a  sign 
which  she  had  taken,  if  we  may  believe  the 
tradition  there,  in  honour  of  a  maternal  uncle,  a 
grand-master  of  that  Order,  whose  achieve- 
ments in  Palestine  she  would  sometimes  relate 
A  mountain-stream  ran  through  the  garden  ;  and 
at  no  great  distance,  where  the  road  turned  on  its 
way  to  Bologna,  stood  a  little  chapel,  in  which  a 
lamp  was  always  burning  before  a  picture  of  the 
11 


162  ITALY. 

Virgin,  a  picture  of  great  antiquity,  the  work  of 
Bome  Greek  artist. 

Here  she  was  dwelhng,  respected  by  all  who 
knew  her;  when  an  event  took  place,  which 
threw  her  into  the  deepest  affliction.  It  was  at 
noon-day  in  September  that  three  foot-travellers 
arrived,  and,  seating  themselves  on  a  bench 
under  her  vine-trellis,  were  supplied  with  a 
flagon  of  Aleatico  by  a  lovely  girl,  her  only 
child,  the  image  of  her  former  self.  The 
eldest  spoke  like  a  Venetian,  and  his  beard 
was  short  and  pointed  after  the  fashion  of 
Venice.  In  his  demeanour  he  affected  great 
courtesy,  but  his  look  inspired  little  confidence  ; 
for  when  he  smiled,  which  he  did  continually, 
it  was  with  his  lips  only,  not  with  his  eyes ; 
and  they  were  always  turned  from  yours.  His 
companions  were  bluff  and  frank  in  their  man- 
ner, and  on  their  tongues  had  many  a  soldier's 
oath.  In  their  hats  they  wore  a  medal,  such  as 
in  that  age  was  often  distributed  in  war ;  and 
they  were  evidently  subalterns  in  one  of  those 
Free  Bands  which  were  always  ready  to  serve 
in  any  quarrel,  if  a  service  it  could  be  called, 
where  a  battle  was  little  more  than  a  mockery ; 
and  the  slain,  as  on  an  opera«stage,  were  up  and 
fighting  to-morrow.  Overcome  with  the  heat, 
they  threw  aside  their  cloaks  ;  and,  with  their 
gloves  tucked  under  their  belts,  continued  for 
some  time  in  earnest  conversation. 

At  length  they  rose  to  go ;  and  the  Venetians 
thus  addressed  their  Hostess.   ' '  Excellent  Lady, 


ITALY.  16i 

yoy  we  leave  under  your  roof,  for  a  day  or  two. 
'b\s  bag  of  gold  ?"  "  You  may,"  she  replied 
gaily.  "Bat  remember,  we  fasten  only  with  a 
latch.  Bars  and  bolts,  we  have  none  in  our 
village ;  and,  if  we  had,  where  would  be  your 
security  ?" 

"In  your  word,  Lady." 

"But  what  if  I  died  to-night  ?  Where  would 
it  be  then  ?"  said  she,  laughing.  "  The  money 
would  go  to  the  church  ;  for  none  could  claim  it.' ' 

"Perhaps  you  will  favour  us  with  an  ac- 
knowledgment." 

"  If  you  will  write  it,' 

An  acknowledgment  was  written  according- 
ly, and  she  signed  it  before  Master  Bartolo,  the 
village  physician  who  had  just  called  by  chance 
to  learn  the  news  of  the  day ;  the  gold  to  be 
delivered  when  applied  for,  but  to  be  delivered 
Uhese  were  the  words)  not  to  one — nor  to  two — 
but  to  the  three ;  words  wisely  introduced  by 
those  to  whom  it  belonged,  knowing  what 
they  knew  of  each  other.  The  gold  they  had 
just  released  from  a  miser's  chest  in  Perugia  • 
and  they  were  now  on  a  scent  that  promised 
more. 

They  and  their  shadows  were  no  sooner  de- 
parted, than  the  Venetian  returned,  saying, 
"  Give  me  leave  to  set  my  seal  on  the  bag,  as 
the  others  have  done;  '  and  she  placed  it  on  a 
table  before  him.  But  in  that  moment  she  was 
callsd  away  to  receive  a  Cavalier,  who  had  just 


164  ITALY. 

dismounted  from  his  horse  ;  and,  when  sfee 
came  back,  it  was  gone.  The  temptation  had 
proved  irresistible  ;  and  the  man  and  the  money 
had  vanished  together, 

"  Wretched  woman  that  I  am  !"  she  cried,  as 
in  an  agony  of  grief  she  fell  on  her  daughter's 
neck,  "  What  will  become  of  us  ?  Are  we  again 
to  be  cast  out  into  the  wide  world  ? — Unhappy 
child,  would  that  thou  hadst  never  been  born  !" 
and  all  day  long  she  lamented  ;  but  her  tears 
availed  her  little.  The  others  were  not  slow  in 
returning  to  claim  their  due  ;  and  there  were  no 
tidings  of  the  thief:  he  had  fled  far  away  with 
his  plunder.  A  process  against  her  was  instantly 
begun  in  Bologna ;  and  what  defence  could  she 
make  ? — how  release  herself  from  the  obligation 
of  the  bond  ?  Wilfully  or  in  negligence  she  had 
parted  with  it  to  one,  when  she  should  have 
kept  it  for  all ;  and  inevitable  ruin  awaited  her  ! 

"  Go,  Gianetta,"  said  she  to  her  daughter, 
"take  this  veil  which  your  mother  has  worn 
and  wept  under  so  often,  and  implore  the  Coun- 
sellor Calderino  to  plead  for  us  on  the  day  of 
trial.  He  is  generous,  and  will  listen  to  the  un- 
fortunate. But,  if  he  will  not,  go  from  door  to 
door ;  Monaldi  cannot  refuse  us.  Make  haste, 
jmy  child  ;  but  remember  the  chapel  as  you  pasa 
by  it.     Nothing  prospers  without  a  prayer." 

Alas,  she  went,  but  in  vain.  These  were  re- 
tained against  them ;  those  demanded  more 
than  they  had  to  give  ;  and  all  bade  them  despair. 


ITALY.  |65 

What  was  to  be  doao  ?  No  advocate ;  and  the 
cause  to  come  on  to-morrow  ! 

Now  Gianetta  had  a  lover;  and  he  v/as  a 
student  of  the  lav/,  a  young  man  of  great  pro- 
mise. Lorenzo  Martelli.  He  had  studied  long 
and  diligently  under  that  learned  lawyer,  Gio- 
vanni Andreas,  who,  though  little  of  stature, 
was  great  in  renown,  and  by  his  contemporaries 
was  called  the  Arch-doctor,  the  Rabbi  of  Doc- 
tors, the  Light  of  the  World.  Under  him  he 
had  studied,  sitting  on  the  same  bench  with  Pe- 
trarch ;  and  also  under  his  daughter,  Novella, 
v.'ho  would  often  lecture  to  the  scholars,  when 
her  father  was  otherwise  engaged,  placing  her- 
self behind  a  small  curtain,  lest  her  beauty 
should  divert  their  thoughts ;  a  precaution  in  this 
instance  at  least  unnecessary,  Lorenzo  having 
lost  his  heart  to  another.* 

To  him  she  flies  in  her'necessity  ;  but  of  what 
Essistance  can  he  be  ?  He  has  just  taken  his 
place  at  the  bar,  but  he  has  never  spoken;  and 
how  stand  up  alone,  unpractised  and  unprepared 
as  he  is,  against  an  array  that  v»^ould  alarm  the 
most  experienced? — "Were  I  as  mighty  as  I 
am  weak,"  said  he,  "my  fears  for  j'ou  would 
make  me  as   nothing.    But   I  will  be  there, 

*  Ce  pourroit  etre,  eaya  Bayle,  la  matiere  d'un  joli 
pn)bleinR  on  pourroit  examiner  si  cette  fille  avancoit,  ou 
fii  elle  retardoit  le  prof.l  de  ses  audiieurs,  en  leur  cachant 
ft->n  beau  visase.  lly  auroit  cent  choses  a  diro  pour  et 
coiitxe  la-dessiis. 


3KJrietta ;  and  may  the  Friend  of  the  Fnend 
.ess  give  me  strength  in  that  hour  !  Even  now 
m.y  heart  fails  me ;  but,  come  "what  will, 
while  I  have  a  loaf  to  share,  you  and  your  mother 
ehall  never  want.  I  will  beg  through  the  worlcj 
for  you." 

The  day  arrives,  and  the  court  assembles. 
The  claim  is  stated,  and  the  evidence  given. 
And  now  the  defence  is  called  for — but  none  is 
made  ;  not  a  syllable  is  uttered ;  and,  after  a 
pause  and  a  consultation  of  some  minutes,  the 
Judges  are  proceeding  to  give  judgment,  silence 
having  been  proclaimed  in  the  Court,  when  Lo- 
renzo rises  and  thus  addresses  them. 

"  Reverend  Signors.  Young  as  I  am,  may  I 
venture  to  speak  before  you  ?  1  would  speak  in 
behalf  of  one  who  has  none  else  to  help  her  ; 
and  I  will  not  keep  you  long. 

"Much  has  been  said;  much  on  the  sacred 
nature  of  the  obligation — and  we  acknowledge 
it  in  its  full  force.  Let  it  be  fulfilled,  and  to  the 
last  letter.  It  is  what  we  soHeit,  what  we  re- 
quire. But  to  whom  is  the  bag  of  gold  to  be 
deUvered  ?  What  says  the  bond  ?  Not  to  one— 
not  to  two — but  to  the  three.  Let  the  three 
stand  forth  and  claim  it." 

From  that  day,  (for  who  can  doubt  the  issue?) 
none  w^ere  sought,  none  employed,  but  the  sub- 
tle, the  eloquent  Lorenzo.  Wealth  followed 
Fame ;  nor  need  I  say  how  soon  he  sat  at  hia 
marriage-feast,  or  who  sat  beside  him. 


ITALY.  167 

XVII. 

A  CHARACTER. 

One  of  two  things  Montrioli  may  have, 
My  envy  or  compassion.    Both  he  cannot. 
Yet  on  he  goes,  numbering  as  miseries, 
What  least  of  all  he  would  consent  to  lose, 
What  most  indeed  he  prides  himself  upon, 
And,  for  not  having,  most  despises  me. 
"  At  morn  the  minister  exacts  an  hour  ; 
At  noon  the  king.     Then  comes  the  council- 
board  ; 
And  then  the  chase,  the  supper.     When,  ah ! 

when, 
The  leisure  and  the  liberty  I  sigh  for  ? 
Not  when  at  home  ;  at  home  a  miscreant-crew. 
That  now  no  longer  serve  me,  mine  the  service. 
And  then  that  old  hereditary  bore. 
The  steward,  his  stories  longer  than  his  rent-roll 
Who  enters,  quill  in  car,  and,  one  by  one, 
As  though  I  lived  to  write  and  wrote  to  live. 
Unrolls  his  leases  for  my  signature." 

He  clanks  his  fetters  to  disturb  my  peace. 
Yet  who  would  wear  them,  and  become  the  slave 
Of  wealth  and  power,  renouncing  willingly 
His  freedom,  and  the  hours  that  fly  so  fast, 
A  burden  or  a  curse  when  misemploy'd, 
But  to  the  wise  how  precious  ! — every  day 
A  little  life,  a  blank  to  be  inscribed 
With  gentle  deeds,  such  as  in  after-time 
Console,  rejoice,  whene'er  we  turn  the  leaf 


68  ITALY, 

To  read  them  ?    All,  wherever  in  the  scale, 
Have,  be  they  high  or  low,  or  rich  or  poor, 
Inherit  they  a  sheep-hook  or  a  sceptre. 
Much  to  be  grateful  for ;  but  most  has  he, 
Born  in  that  middle  sphere,  that  temperate  zone 
V/here  Ivnowledge  lights  hia  lamp,  there  mos* 

secure, 
And  Wisdom  comes,  if  ever,  she  who  dwells 
Above  the  clouds,  above  the  firmament, 
That  Seraph  sitting  in  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

What  men  most  covet,  wealth,   distinction, 
power, 
Are  baubles  nothing  w^orth,  that  only  serve 
To  rouse  us  up,  as  children  in  the  schools 
Are  roused  up  to  exertion.     The  reward 
Is  in  the  race  we  run,  not  in  the  prize  ; 
And  they,  the  few,  that  have  it  ere  they  earn  it 
Having  by  favour  or  inheritance, 
Thtse  dangerous  gifts  placed  in  their  idle  hands 
And  all  that  should  await  on  worth  well-tried, 
All  in  the  glorious  days  of  old  reserved 
For  2nanhood  most  mature  or  reverend  age, 
Know  not,  nor  ever  can,  the  generous  pride, 
That  glows  in  him  who  on  himself  relies. 
Entering  the  lists  of  life. 

XVIII. 

SORRENTO. 

He  who  sets  sail  from  Naples,  when  the  wind 
Blows  fragrance  from  Posilipo  may  soon 


ITALY.  169 

Cro.«sing  from  side  to  side  that  beautifui  lake, 
Land  underneath  the  cliff,  where  once  among 
The  children  gathering  shells  along  the  shore, 
One  laugh'dandplay'd,  unconscious  of  his  fate;* 
His  to  drink  deep  of  sorrow,  and,  through  life, 
To  be  the  scorn  of  them  that  knew  him  not. 
Trampling  alike  the  giver  and  his  gift. 
The  gift  a  pearl  precious,  inestimable, 
A  lay  divine,  a  lay  of  love  and  war. 
To  charm,  ennoble,  and,  from  age  to  age, 
Sweeten  the  labour,  when  the  oar  was  plied 
Or  on  the  Adrian  or  the  Tuscan  sea. 

There  would  I  linger — then  go  forth  again, 
And  hover  round  that  region  unexplored. 
Where  to  Salvator  (when,  as  some  relate. 
By  chance  or  choice  he  led  a  bandit's  life. 
Yet  oft  withdrew,  alone  and  unobserved. 
To  wander  through  those  awful  solitudes) 
Nature  reveal'd  herself.     Unveil'dshe  stood, 
In  all  her  wildness,   all  her  majesty. 
As  in  that  elder  time,  ere  Man  was  made. 

There  would  I  linger — then  go  forth  again ; 
And  he  who  steers  due  east,  doubling  the  capSj 
Discovers,  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock. 
The  fishing-town,  Amalfi.  (58)  Haply  there 
A  heaving  bark,  an  anchor  on  the  strand. 
May  tell  him  what  it  is ;  but  what  it  was, 
Cannot  be  told  so  soon. 

*Tas3o, 


170  HALY. 

The  time  has  been, 
When  on  the  quays  along  the  Syrian  coast, 
Twas  ask'd  and  eagerly,  at  break  of  dawn, 
*' Wha*.  ships   are  from    Amalfi?"    when  hei 

coins, 
Silver  and  gold,  circled  from  clime  to  clime  ; 
From  Alexandria  southward  to  Sennaar, 
And  eastward,  through  Damascus  and  Cabul 
And  Samarcand,  to  thy  great  wall,  Cathay. 

Then  Vvere  the  nations  by  her  wisdom  sway'd; 
And  every  crime  on  every  sea  was  judged 
According  to  her  judgments.     In  her  port 
Prows,  strange,  uncouth,  from  Nile  and  Niger 

met. 
People  of  various  feature,  various  speech  ; 
And  in  their  countries  many  a  house  of  prayer, 
And  many  a  shelter,  where  no  shelter  was, 
And  many  a  well,  Hke  Jacob's  in  the  wild, 
Rose  at  her  bidding.     Then  in  Palestine, 
By  the  way-side,  in  sober  grandeur  stood 
An  Hospital,  that,  night  and  day,  received 
The  pilgrims  of  the  west ;  and,   when  't  was 

ask'd, 
"  Who  are  the  noble  founders?"  every  tongue 
At  once  replied,  "  The  merchants  of  Amalfi." 
That  Hospital,  when  Godfrey  scaled  the  walls, 
Sent  forth  its  holy  men  in  complete  steel ; 
And  hence,  the  cowl  relinquish'd  for  the  helm, 
That  chosen  band,  valiant,  invincible, 
So  long  renown'd  as  champions  of  the  Cross-, 
In  Rhodes,  in  Malta. 


ITALY.  I7ii 

For  three  hundred  years, 
There,  unapproach'd  but  irora  the  deep,  they 

dweh ; 
Assail' d  for  ever,  yet  from  age  to  age 
Acknowledging  no  master.     From  ttie  deep 
They  gather'd  in  their  harvests ;  bringing  home, 
In  the  same  ship,  relics  of  ancient  Greece, (59> 
That  land  of  glory  where  their  fathers  lay, 
Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  Sicily, 
And  Indian  spices.     When  at  length  they  fell 
Losing  their  liberty,  they  left  mankind 
A  legacy,  compared  with  which  the  wealth  . 
Of  Eastern  Kings — what  is  it  in  the  scale  ?— 
The  mariner's  compass. 

They  are  now  forgot. 
And  with  them  all  they  did,  all  they  endured, 
Strugghng  with  fortune.     When  Sicardi  stood, 
And,  with  a  shout  like  thunder,  cried,  "  Com^ 

forth, 
And  serve  me  in  Salerno  !"  forth  they  came. 
Covering  the  sea,  a  mournful  spectacle  ; 
The  women  waihng,  and  the  heavy  oar 
Falling  unheard.     Not  thus  did  they  return, 
The  tyrant  slain  ;  though  then  the  grass  of  years 
Grew  in  their  streets. 

There  now  to  him  who  sails 
Under  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages, 
Scatter'd  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds. 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark-blue  sea, 
And  glittering  through  their  lemon-groves,  ai^ 

nounce 
Tbe  region  of  Amalfi,    Then,  half-faJlen, 


172  ITALY. 

A  lonely  watch-tower  on  the  precipice, 

Their  ancient  land-mark,  comes.    Long  may  it 

last; 
And  to  the  seaman  in  a  distant  age, 
Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debti 
Serve  for  their  monument !  (60) 

XIX. 

P^STUM. 

They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the 

sea ; 
Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not  !* 
The  seaman,  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck. 
The  buflalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak, 
Points  to  the  work  of  magic  and  moves  on. 
Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street. 
Temples  of  Gods  I  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 
The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  I 
Time  was  perhaps  the  third  was  sought  for 

Justice  ; 
And  here   the   accuser   stood,  and   there   the 

accused ; 
And  here  the  judges  sate,  and  heard,  and  judged. 
AH  silent  now  ! — as  in  the  ages  past, 
Trodden  under  foot  and  mingled,  dust  with  dust. 

*  The  temples  of  Paeslum  are  three  in  number  ;  and 
have  survived,  nearly  nine  centuries,  the  total  destruc* 
tjonofthe  city.  Tradition  is  silent  concerning  them; 
but  they  must  have  existed  now  between  two  Bad  thre* 
fJiousand  ytars. 


HALT.  173 

Ho^  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  ro^md 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea, 
While,  by  some  spell  render'd  invisible, 
Or,  if  approach'd.  approach'd  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remaiu'd 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre. 
Waiting  the  appointed  time  !     All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  Nature  had  resumed  her  right, 
And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounceJ  , 
No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  w-orn  abacus, 
But  with  thick  ivy  hung  or  branching  fern ; 
Their   iron-brov/n    o'erspread    with    brightest 
verdure ! 

From  my  youth  upv/ard  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground — And  am  I  here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove, 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like. 
Mountains  and  mountain-gulfs,  and,  half-w?y 

up, 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they 

grew  ? 
A  cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate. 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms.* 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
*Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals ; 
Sweet    as    when    Tully,    v.'riting    down    his 
thoughts, 

♦  Spartacus.    See  Plutarch  in  the  life  '-f  Cra55U3 


174  ITAtY. 

Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  loat, 
(Turning  to  thee,  divine  Philosophy, 
Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul) 
Sail'd  slowly  by,  tv^^o  thousand  years  ago, 
For  Athens  ;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from   the   Peestan  gardens,  slack' d  her 


On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore, 
These  temples,  in  their  splendour  eminent 
Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers, 
Jleflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west. 
Well  might  He  dream  of  Glory  !— Now,  coil'd 

up, 
The  serpent  sleeps  within  them ;  the  she* wolf 
Suckles  l*r  young ;  and,  as  alone  I  stand 
In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 
Of  earth  and  air  its  only  floor  and  covering, 
How  solemn  is  the  stillness !    Nothing  stirs 
Save  the  shrill-voiced  cicala  flitting  round 
On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing ; 
Or  the  green  Hzard  rustling  through  the  glass, 
And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  mo» 

tion. 
To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  Time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  flood  of  light 
FilUngthc  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries, 
Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused, 
A,cross  the  innumerable  columns  fluna) 


ITALY.  175 

la.  such  an  hour  ba  came,  who  saw  and  told. 
Led  by  the  mighty  Genius  of  the  Place.* 

Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appear'd, 
Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scatter' d  as  in  scorn ; 
—And   what   within  them  t   what  but  in  the 

midst 
These    Three    in    more    than    their    original 

grandeur 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  ? 
As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear, 
And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements. 

'T  is  said  a  stranger  in  the  days  of  old 
(Some  say  a  Dorian,  some  a  Sybarite ; 
But  distant  things  are  ever  lost  in  clouds), 
'Tis  said  a  stranger  came,  and,  with  his  plow, 
Traced  out  the  site  ;  and  Posidonia  rose,  (61) 
Severely  great,  Neptune,  the  tutelar  God; 
A  Homer's  language  murmuring  in  her  streets> 
And  in  her  haven  many  a  mast  from  Tyre. 
Then  came  another,  an  unbidden  guest. 
He  knock' d  and  enter' d  with  a  train  in  arms  ; 
And   all   was   changed,   her    very   name    and 

language. 
The  Tyrian  merchant,  shipping  at  his  door 
Ivory  and  gold,  and  silk,  and  frankincense, 
Sail'd    as    before,    but    sailing,    cried    "  Fo» 

Paestum  1" 

•  They  are  said  to  have  beea  discovered  by  accident 
tbjul  the  middle  of  ihe  laal  century. 


176  ITALY. 

And  now  a  Virgil,  now  an  Ovid  sung 
Paestum's  twice-blowing  roses  ;  while,  within, 
Parents  and  children  mourn' d — and,  every  year, 
I'T  was  on  the  day  of  some  old  festival) 
Met  to  give  way  to  tears,  and  once  again, 
Talk'd  in  the  ancient  tongue  of  things  gone  by.* 
At  length  an  Arab  climb' d  the  battlements, 
Slaying  the  sleepers  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
And  from  all  eyes  the  glorious  vision  fled  ! 
Leaving  a  place  lonely  and  dangerous. 
Where  whom  the  robber  spares,  a  deadlier  foet 
Strikey  at  unseen — and  ar  a  time  when  joy 
Opens  the  heart,  when  summer-skies  are  blue, 
And  the  clear  air  is  soft  and  delicate ; 
For  then  the  demon  works — then  with  that  air 
The  thoughtless   wretch   drinks    in   a  subtle 

poison 
Lulling  to  sleep  ;  and,  when  he  sleeps,  he  dies. 

But  what  are  These  still  standing  in  the  midst? 
The  earth  has  rock'd  beneath ;  the  Thunder- 
stone 
Passed  through  and  through,  and  left  its  traces 

there, 
Yet  still  they  stand   as   by  some   Unknown 

Charter ! 
Oh,  they  are  Nature's  own  !  and,  as  allied 
To  the  vast  Mountains  and  the  eternal  Sea, 
They  want  no  written  history  ;  theirs  a  voice 
For  ever  speaking  to  the  heart  of  Man  ! 

*  AthenJEUs,  xiv.  t  The  Mal'ana.. 


ITALY.  177 

XX. 

MONIE  CASSINO. 

"What   hangs  behind   that   curtain?" — 
"  Wouldst  thou  leavn? 
If  thou  art  wise,  thou  wouldst  not.  'T  is  by  some 
Behaved  to  be  his  master-work,  who  look'd 
Beyond  the  grave,  and  on  the  chapel-wall, 
As  though  the  day  were  come,  were  come  and 

past,   • 
Drew  the  Last  Judgment.* — But  the  Wisest  err. 
He  who  in  secret  wrought,  and  gave  it  life, 
For  life  is  surely  there  and  visible  change, 
Life,  such  as  none  could  of  himself  impart, 
(They  who  behold  it,  go  not  as  they  came, 
But  meditate  for  many  and  many  a  day) 
Sleeps  in  the  vault  beneath.     We  know  not 

much ; 
But  what  we  know,  we  will  communicate. 
'Tis  in  an  ancient  record  of  the  House; 
And  may  it  make  thee  tremble,  lest  thou  fall! 

Once — on  a  Christmas-eve — ere  yet  the  roof 
Rung  with  the  hymn  of  the  Nativity, 
Tliere  came  a  stranger  to  the  convent-gate, 
And  ask'd  admittance  ;  ever  and  anon, 
As  if  he  sought  what  most  he  fear'd  to  find, 
Looking  behind  him.    When  within  the  walls, 
These  walls  so  sacred  and  inviolable, 
StiU  did  he  look  behind  him  ;  oft  and  long, 

♦  Fichael  Angelo. 
12 


178  ITALY. 

With  haggard  eye  and  curling,  quivering  lip, 
Catching  at  vacancy.     Between  the  fits, 
For  here,  'tis  said,  he  linger'd  while  he  lived, 
He  would  discourse,  and  with  a  mastery, 
A  charm  by  none  resisted,  none  explain' d, 
Unfelt  before  ;  but  when  his  cheek  grew  pale, 
All  was  forgotten.     Then,  howe'er  employed. 
He  would  break  off,  and  start  as  if  he  caught 
A  glimpse  of  something  that  would  not  be  gone  ; 
And  turn  and  gaze,  and  shrink  into  himself, 
As  though  the  Fiend  was  there,  and,  face  to  face, 
Scowl'd  o'er  his  shoulder. 

Most  devout  he  was ; 
Most  unremitting  in  the  Services ; 
Then,  only  then,  untroubled,  unassail'd; 
And,  to  beguile  a  melancholy  hour, 
Would  sometimes  exercise  that  noble  art 
He  learnt  in  Florence  ;  with  a  master's  hand, 
As  to  this  day  the  Sacristy  attests, 
Painting  the  wonders  of  the  Apocalypse. 

At  length  he  sunk  to  rest,  and  in  his  cell 
Left,  when  he  went,  a  wor'K.  in  secret  done, 
The  portrait,  for  a  portrait  it  must  be, 
That  hangs  behind  the  curtain.     Whence  he 

drew, 
None  here  can  doubt:  for  they  that  come  to 

catch 
The  faintest  glimpse — to  catch  it  and  be  gone, 
Gaze  as  he  gazed,  then  shrink  into  themselves, 
Acting  the   self-same   part.    But  why   't  was 

drawn, 


ITALY.  179 

Whether  in  penance,  to  atone  for  Guilt, 

Or  to  recoid  the  anguisli  Guilt  inflicts, 

Or  haply  to  familiarize  his  mind 

With  what  he  could  not  fly  from,  none  can  say, 

For  none  could  learn  the  burden  of  his  soul." 

XXI. 
THE  HARPER. 

It  was  a  Harper,  wandering  with  his  harp, 
His  only  treasure  ;  a  majestic  man, 
By  time  and  grief  ennobled,  not  subdued  ; 
Though  from  his  height  descending,  d-ay  by  day 
And,  as  his  upward  look  at  once  betray'd, 
Blind  as  old  Homer.     At  a  fount  he  sate, 
Well-known  to  many  a  weary  traveller  ; 
His  little  guide,  a  boy  not  seven  years  old, 
But  grave,  considerate  beyond  his  years. 
Sitting  beside  him.    Each  had  ate  his  crust 
In  silence,  drinking  of  the  virgin-spring ; 
And  now  in  silence,  as  their  custom  was. 
The  sun's  dechne  awaited. 

But  the  child 
Was  worn  with  travel.     Heavy  sleep  weigh' J 

down 
Elis  eye-lids ;  and  the  grandsire,  when  we  came, 
Embolden' d  by  his  love  and  by  his  fear. 
His  fear  lest  night  o'ertake  them  on  the  road, 
Humbly  besought  me  to  convey  them  both 
A  little  onward.    Such  small  services 
Who  can  refuse  ? — Not  I ;  and  him  who  can, 
Blest  though  he  be  with  every  earthly  gift, 


ISO  KTALT. 

I  cannot  envy.    He,  if  wealth  oe  his, 
Knows  not  its  uses.    So  from  noon  till  night. 
Within  a  crazed  and  tatter'd  vehicle,  (62) 
Tliat  yet  display'd,  in  old  emblazonry, 
A  sliield  as  splendid  as  the  Bardi  wear ;  (63) 
We  lumber' d  on  together  ;  the  old  man 
Beguiling  many  a  league  of  half  its  length. 
When  question'd  the  adventures  of  his  hie. 
And  all  the  dangers  he  had  undergone  ; 
His  shipwrecks  on  inhospitable  coasts, 
And  his  long  warfare. 

They  were  bound,  he  sai^^ 
To  a  great  fair  at  Reggio  ;  and  the  boy, 
Believmg  all  the  world  were  to  be  there, 
And  I  among  the  rest,  let  loose  his  tongue. 
And  promised  me  much  pleasure.     His   short 

trance, 
Short  as  it  was,  had,  like  a  charmed  cup, 
Restored  his  spirit,  and,  as  on  we  crawl' d. 
Slow  as  the  snail  (my  muleteer  dismounting. 
And  novv  his  mules  addressing,  now  his  pipe. 
And  now  Luigi)  he  poured  out  his  heart. 
Largely  repaying  me.    At  length  the  sun 
Departed,  setting  in  a  sea  of  gold; 
And,  as  we  gazed,  he  bade  me  rest  assured 
That  like  the  setting  would  the  rising  be.. 

Their  harp — it  had  a  voice  oracular. 
And  in  the  desert,  in  the  crowded  street. 
Spoke  when  consulted.    It  the  treble  chord 
Twang'd  shrill  and  clear,  o'er  hill  and  dale  th:^ 
venU 


ITALY.  181 

•Fhe  gTCJidsire,  step  by  step   led  by  the  child; 
And  not  a  rain-drop  trom  a  passing  cloud 
Fell  on  their  garments.    Thus  it  spoke  tx)-day 
Inspiring  joy,  and,  in  the  young  one's  mind, 
Brightening  a  path  already  full  of  sunshine. 

XXII. 

THE  FELUCA. 
Day  glimmer' d  ;  and  beyond  the  precipice 
(Which  my  mule  follow'd  as  in  love  with  fear, 
Or  as  in  scorn,  /et  more  and  more  inclining 
To  tempt  the  danger  where  it  menaced  most), 
A  sea  of  vapour  roli'd.     Methought  we  went 
Along  the  utmost  edge  of  this,  our  world  ; 
6ut  soon  the  surges  tied   and  we  descried 
Nor  dimly,  though  the  lark  was  silent  yet, 
Thy  gulf.  La  Spezzia.     Ere  the  morning-gun, 
Ere  the  first  day-streak,  we  alighted  there  ; 
And  not  a  breath,  a  murmur  !    Every  sail 
Slept  in  the  offing.     Yet  along  the  shore 
Great  was  the  stir  ;  as  at  the  noontide  hour, 
None  unemploy'd.     Where  from  its  native  rock 
A  streamlet,  clear  and  full,  ran  to  the  sea. 
The  m.aidens  knelt  and  sung  as  they  were  wont, 
Washing  their  garments.  Where  it  met  the  tide, 
Sparkling  and  lost,  an  ancient  pinnace  lay 
Keel-upward,  and  the  fagot  blazed,  the  tar 
Fumed  from  the  chaldron ;  while,  beyond  the  fort 
Whither  I  v;-ander'd,  step  by  step  led  on. 
The  fishers  dragg'd  their  net,  the  fish  within 
At  every  heave  fluttering  and  full  of  life. 


182  ITALY, 

At  every  heave  striking  their  sJvcr  fina 
'Gainst  the  dark  meshes. 

Soon  a  boatman's  shout 
Re-echoed ;  and  red  bonnets  on  the  beach, 
Waving,  recall'd  me.     We  embark'd  and  left 
That  noble  haven,  where,  when  Genoa  reign'd, 
A  hundred  galleys  shelter'd — in  the  day. 
When  lofty  spirits  met,  and,  deck  to  deck, 
Doria,  Pisani  fought ;  that  narrow  field 
Ample  enough  for  glory.     On  we  went, 
Ruffling   with   r.iany    an    oar  the    crystalline 

sea,  (64) 
On  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun. 
In  silence — underneath  a  mountain-ridge, 
Untamed,  untamable,  reflecting  round 
The  saddest  purple  ;  nothing  to  be  seen 
Of  life  or  culture,  save  where,  at  the  foot. 
Some  village  and  its  church,  a  scanty  line, 
Athwart  the  wave  gleam'd  faintly.     Fear  of  ill 
Narrow'd  our  course,  fear  of  the  hurricane, 
And  that  yet  greater  scourge,  the  crafty  Moor, 
V/ho,  like  a  tiger  prowling  for  his  prey, 
Springs  and  is  gone,  and  on  the  adverse  coast 
(Where  Tripoli  and  Tunis  and  Algiers 
Forge  fetters,  and  white  turbans  on  the  mole 
Gather,  whene'er  the  Crescent  comes  display'd 
Over  the  Cross)  his  human  merchandise 
To  many  a  curious,  many  a  cruel  eye 
Exposes.     Ah,  how  oft  where  now  the  sun 
Slept  on  the  shore,  have  ruthless  cimeters 
Flash'd  through  the  lattice,  and  a  swarthy  crew 
Dragg'd  forth,  ere-!ong  to  number  them  for  sale. 


ITAL1.  183 

Ere-long  to  part  them  in  their  agony, 

Parent  and  child  I  How  oft  where  now  we  redo 

Over  the  billow,  has  a  wretched  son. 

Or  yet  more  wretched  sire,  grown  grey  in  chains, 

Labour'd,  his  hands  upon  the  oar,  his  eyes 

Upon  the  land — the  land,  that  gave  him  birth  ; 

And,  as  he  gazed,  his  homestall  through  his  tears. 

Fondly  imagined  ;  when  a  Christian  ship 

Of  war  appearing  in  her  bravery, 

A  voice  in  anger  cried,  "  Use  all  your  strength!" 

But  when,  ah  when,  do  they  that  can,  forbear 
To  crush  the  unresisting  ?  Strange,  that  men, 
Creatures  so  frail,  so  soon,  alas  !  to  die. 
Should  have  the  power,  the  will  to  make  this 

world 
A  dismal  prison-house,  and  life  itself. 
Life  in  its  prime,  a  burden  and  a  curse 
To  him  who  never  wrong' d  them  I    Who  thai 

breathes 
Would  not,  when  first  he  heard  it,  turn  away 
As  from  a  tale  monstrous,  incredible  ? 
Surely  a  sense  of  our  mortality, 
A  consciousness  how  soon  we  shall  be  gone, 
Or,  if  we  linger — but  a  few  short  years — 
How  sure  to  look  upon  our  brother's  grave, 
Should  of  itself  incline  to  pity  and  love, 
And  prompt  us  rather  to  assist,  relieve. 
Than  aggravate  the  evils  each  is  heir  to. 

At  length  thg  day  departed,  and  the  iroon 
Rose  like  anot:i3r  sun,  illumining 


184  ITALY. 

Waters   and   woods    and  cloud-capt   promon- 
tories, 
Glades  for  a  hermit's  cell,  a  lady's  bower, 
Scenes  of  Elysium,  such  as  Night  alone 
Reveals  below,  nor  often — scenes  that  fled 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  wizard's  wand, 
And  left  behind  them,  as  their  parting  gift, 
A  thousand  nameless  odours.     All  was  still  ; 
And  now  the  nightingale  her  song  pour'd  forth 
In  such  a  torrent  of  heart-felt  delight, 
So  fast  it  flow'd,  her  tongue  so  voluble, 
As  if  she  thought  her  hearers'  would  be  gone 
Hire  half  was  told.     'T  was  where  in  the  north 

west. 
Still  unassail'd  and  unassailable, 
Thy  pharos,  Genoa,  first  display'd  itself, 
Burning  in  stillness  on  its  craggy  seat ; 
That  guiding  star,  so  oft  the  only  one, 
When  those  now  glowing  in  the  azure  vault. 
Are  dark  and  silent.  'T  was  where  o'er  the  sea, 
For  we  were  now  within  a  cable's  length, 
Delicious  gardens  hung ;  green  galleries, 
And  marble  terraces  in  many  a  flight. 
And  fairy- arches  flung  from  cliff' to  cliff", 
Wildering,  enchanting  ;  and,  above  them  all, 
A  Palace,  such  as  somewhere  in  the  Eas>^, 
In  Zenastan  or  Araby  the  blest, 
Among  its  golden  groves  and  fruits  of  gold, 
And  fountains  scattering  rainbows  in  the  sun, 
Rose,  when  Aladdin  rubb'd  the  wondrous  lamp 
Such,  if  not  fairer ;  and,  when  we  shot  by, 
A  scene  of  revelry,  in  long  array 


ITALY.  185 

The  windows  blazing.  But  we  now  approach'd 
A  City  far-renown'd  ;*  and  wonder  ceased. 

xxiir. 

GENOA. 

This  house  was  Andrea  Doria's.    Here  he 
lived  ; 
And  here  at  eve  relaxing,  when  ashore, 
Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse 
With  them  that  sought  him,  walking  to  and  fro 
As  on  his  deck.  'T  is  less  in  length  and  breadth 
Than  many  a  cabin  in  a  ship  of  war  ; 
But  't  is  of  marble,  and  at  once  inspires 
The  reverence  due  to  ancient  dignity. 

He  left  it  for  a  better  ;  and  't  is  now 
A  house  of  trade,  (65)  the  meanest  merchandise 
Cumbering  its  floors.  Yet,  fallen  as  it  is, 
'T  is  still  the  noblest  dwelling — even  in  Genoa! 
And  hadst  thou,  Andrea,  lived  there  to  the  last, 
Thou  hadst  done  well ;  for  there  is  that  without, 
That  in  the  wall ,  which  monarchs  could  not  give, 
Nor  thou  take  with  thee,  that  which  says  aloud, 
It  was  thy  Country's  gift  to  her  Deliverer. 

'T  is  in  the  heart  of  Genoa  (he  who  comes, 
Must  come  on  foot)  and  in  a  place  of  stir  ; 
Men  on  th)ir  daily  business,  early  and  hte, 

*  Genoa. 


186  ITALY. 

Thronging  thy  very  threshold.  But  wlien  there, 
Thou  wert  among  thy  fellow-citizeng, 
Thy  children,  for  they  hail'd  thee  as  their  sire  ; 
And  on  a  spot  thou  must  have  loved,  for  there, 
Calling  them  round,  thou  gavest  them  more 

than  life, 
Giving  v/hat,  lost,  makes  life  not  worth   the 

keeping. 
There  thou  did'st  do  indeed  an  act  divine  ; 
Nor  couldst  thou  leave  thy  door  or  enter  in, 
Without  a  blessing  on  thee. 

Thou  art  now 
Again  among  them.    Thy  brave  mariners, 
They  who  had  fought  so  often  by  thy  side, 
Staining  the  mountain-billows,  bore  thee  back ; 
And  thou  art  sleeping  in  thy  funeral-chamber. 

Thine  was  a  glorious  course  ;  but  couldst  thou 
there. 
Clad  in  thy  cere-cloth — in  that  silent  vault, 
Where  thou  art  gather' d  to  thy  ancestors — 
Open  thy  secret  heart  and  tell  us  all, 
Then  should  we  hear  thee  with  a  sigh  confess, 
A  sigh  how  heavy,  that  thy  happiest  hours 
Were  pass'd  before  these  sacred  walls  were  left. 
Before  the  ocean- wave  thy  wealth  reflected,  (66) 
And  pomp  and  power  drew  envy,  stirring  up 
The  ambitious  man,*  that  in  a  perilous  hour 
Fell  from  the  plank. 

*Fiesco. 


ITALY.  167 

A  FAREWELL.* 

AXD  .low  farewell  to  Italy — perhaps 
For  ever  !    Yet,  methinks,  I  could  not  go, 
I  could  not  leave  it,  were  it  mine  to  say, 
"  Farewell  for  ever  !" 

Many  a  courtesy, 
That  sought  no  recompense,  and  met  with  none 
But  in  the  swell  of  heart  with  which  it  came, 
Have  I  experienced  ;  not  a  cabin-door, 
Go  where  I  would,  but  open'd  with  a  smile  ; 
From  the  first  hour,  when,  in  my  long  descent, 
Strange  perfumes  rose,  as  if  to  welcome  me, 
From  flowers  that  minister' d  like  unseen  spirits; 
From  the  first  hour,  when  vintage-songs  broke 

forth, 
A  grateful  earnest,  and  the  Southern  lakes, 
Dazzhngly  bright,  unfolded  at  my  feet; 
They  that  receive  the  cataracts,  and  ere-long 
Dismiss  them,  but  how  changed — onward  to  roll 
From  age  to  age  in  silent  majesty, 
Blessing  the  nations,  and  reflecting  round 
The  gladness  they  inspire. 

Gentle  or  rude, 
No  scene  of  life  but  has  contributed 
Much  to  remember — from  the  Polesine, 
Where,  when  the  south-wind  blows,  and  clouda 

on  clouds 
Gather  and  fall,  the  peasant  freights  his  bark, 
Mindful  to  migrate  when  the  king  of  floodst 

♦  Written  at  Susa,  May  1 ,  1823.      t  The  Pat 


188  ITALY. 

Visits  his  humble  dwelling,  and  the  kee., 
Slowly  uplifted  over  field  hjkI  fence, 
Floats  on  a  world  of  waters — from  that  low, 
That  level  region,  where  no  Echo  dwells, 
Or,  if  she  comes,  comes  in  her  saddest  plight. 
Hoarse,  inarticulate — on  to  where  the  path 
Is  lost  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  to  breathe 
Is  to  inhale  distemper,  if  not  death  ; 
Where  the  wild-boar   retreats,   when  hunters 

chafe 
And,  when  the  day-star  flames,  the  bufTalo-herd, 
Afflicted,  plunge  into  the  stagnant  pool. 
Nothing  discern' d  amid  the  water-leaves, 
Save  here  and  there  the  likeness  of  a  head, 
Savage,  uncouth  ;  where  none  in  human  shape 
Come,  save  the  herdsman,  levelling  his  length 
Of  lance  with  many  a  cry,  or,  Tartar-hke, 
Urging  his  steed  along  the  distant  hill 
As  from  a  danger.     There,  but  not  to  rest, 
I  travell'd  many  a  dreary  league,  nor  turn'd 
(Ah  then  least  willing,  as  who  had  not  been  ?) 
Wh^n  in  the  South,  against  the  azure  sky. 
Three  temples  rose  in  soberest  majesty. 
The  wondrous  work  of  some  heroic  race.* 

But  now  a  long  farewell!  Oft,  while  I  live, 
If  once  again  in  England,  once  again 
In  my  own  chimney-nook,  as  Night  steals  on, 
With  half-shut  eyes  reclining,  oft,  methinks, 
While  the  wind  blusters  and  the  pelting  rain 

*  The  Temples  of  Fsestum. 


ITALY.  189 

Clatters  without,  shall  I  recall  to  mina 
The  scenes,  occurrences,  I  met  with  hero, 
And  wander  ia  Elysium  ;  many  a  note 
or  wildest  melody,  magician-like, 
Awakening,  such  as  the  Calabrian  horn, 
Along  the  mountain-side,  when  all  is  still, 
Pours  forth  at  folding-time  ;  and  many  a  chant, 
Solemn,  sublime,  such  as  at  midnight  flows 
From  the  full  choir,  when  richest  harmonies 
Break  the  deep  silence  of  thy  glens.  La  Cava; 
To  him  who  lingers  there  with  listening  ear, 
Now  lost  and  now  descending  as  from  Heavcsi! 


NOTES  AND    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NCTE  1,  Pa&e  15. 

like  him  of  old. 

The  Abbot  of  Clairvaux.  "To  admire  ot 
rfespise  St.  Bernard  as  he  ought,"  saj's  Gibbon, 
"the  reader,  hke  myself,  should  have  before 
the  windows  of  his  Ubraiy  that  incomparable 
landscape." 

Note  2,  Page  17. 
Two  dogg  of  grave  demeanour  welcomed  me. 
Berri,  so  remarkable  for  his  sagacity,  was 
dead.    His  skin  is  stuffed,  and  is  preserved  in 
the  Museum  of  Berne. 

Note  3,  Page  22. 

Bread  to  the  hungry. 
They  distribute,  in  the  course  of  the  year, 
from  thirty  to  th.rty-five  thousand  rations  of  food; 
receiving  travellers  of  every  description.-'— Le 
Peke  B:selx,  Frieur. 

Note  4,  Page  23. 
Dessaix,  who  lurn'd  the  scale. 
"  Of  all  the  generals  I  ever  had  tmder  me, 
Dessaix   possessed   trie   greatest   talents      He 
loved  glory  for  itself." 


192  ITALY. 

Note  5,  Page  28. 

A  wondrous  niotluiten*. 

Almost  every  mountain  of  any  raiJi  or  con- 
dition has  such  a  bridge.  The  most  celebrated 
in  this  country  is  on  the  Swiss  side  of  Su 
Gothard. 

Note  6,  Page  35, 

quaffing  gramolata. 

A  sherbet  half  frozen. 

Note  7,  Page  37. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  days  of  Minslrelsy. 
Petrarch,  Epist.  Rer.  Sen.  1.  v,  ep.  3. 

Note  8,  Page  37. 
Before  the  great  Mastino. 

Mastino  de  la  Scala,  the  Lord  of  Verona, 
Coriusia,  the  ambassador  and  historian,  saw 
him  so  surrounded. — L.  6. 

This  house  had  been  always  open  to  the  un- 
fortunate. In  the  days  of  Can  Grande,  all  were 
welcome ;  Poets,  Philosophers,  Artists,  War- 
riors. Each  had  his  apartment,  each  a  separate 
table  ;  and  at  the  hour  of  dinner,  musicians  and 
jesters  went  from  room  to  room.  Dante,  as 
we  learn  from  himself,  found  an  asylum  there. 

Note  9,  Page  40. 
In  this  neglected  mirror. 
As  this  is  the  only  instance,  with  which  I  am 


ITALY.  TQS 

Ecquainted,  of  a  Ghost  in  Italy  since  Bn^tus  sat 
in  his  tent,  I  give  it  as  1  received  it ;  though  in 
the  catastrophe  I  have  been  anticipated  by  a 
distinguished  writer  of  the  present  day. 

It  was  first  mentioned  to  me  by  a  friend,  as 
we  were  crossing  the  Apennines  together. 

Note  10,  Page  43. 
She  was  ^Yal^d  up  within  the  Castle-wall. 
IMurato  was  a  technical  word  for  this  punish* 
ment  in  Italy. 

Note  11,  Page  43. 

Issuing  forth. 

An  old  huntsman  of  the  family  met  her  in  the 
haze  of  the  morning,  and  never  went  out  again. 
She  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  Madonna 
Bianca. 

Note  12,  Page  44. 

the  tower  of  Ezzelin— 

Now  an  Observatory.  On  the  wall  there  is 
a  long  inscription:  "  Piis  carcerem  adspergite 
iacrymis,"  etc. 

Ezzelino  is  seen  by  Dante  in  the  river  oi 
blood. — Inferno,  xii. 

Note  13,  Page  45. 

The  lagging  mules 

The  passage  boats  are  drawn  up  and  down 
the  Brent. 

13 


151  TTALT. 

Note  )4,  Page  45. 
That  child  of  fun  *nd  frolic,  Arlecchino. 

A  pleasant  instance  of  his  wit  and  agility  was 
exhibited  some  years  ago  on  the  stage  at  Venice. 

"The  stutterer  was  in  an  agony;  the  word 
was  inexorable.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that 
Harlequin  suggested  another  and  another.  At 
length,  in  a  fit  of  despair,  he  pitched  his  head 
full  in  the  dying  man's  stomach,  and  the  word 
bolted  out  of  his  mouth  to  the  most  distant  part 
of  the  house." — See  Moore's  Viev)  of  Society 
in  Italy. 

Note  15,  Page  47. 

Ere  yet  the  Cafila  cauie. • 

A  caravan. 

Note  16,  Page  50. 
riaying  at  Mora. 
A  national  game  of  great  antiquity,  and  most 
probably  the  "  micare  digitis"  of  the  Pcomans. 

Note  17,  Page  50. 

twelve  Procurators. 

The  procuratorship  of  St.  Mark  was  the 
socond  dignity  in  the  Republic. 

Note  18,  Page  52. 
The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains. 
They  were  placed  in  tlie  floor  as  memorials. 
The  brass  was  engraven  with  the  words  ad- 


ITALY.  195 

dressed  by  the  Pope  to  the  Emperor,  "Super 
aspidem,"  etc. 

Note  19,  Page  53. 
Ofihe  proud  Pontiff- 
Alexander  III.  He  lied  in  disguise  to  Venice, 
and  is  said  to  have  passed  the  first  night  on  the 
steps  of  San  Salvatore.  The  entrance  is  from 
the  Merceria,  near  the  foot  of  the  Rialto  ;  and 
it  is  thus  recorded,  under  his  escutcheon,  in  a 
small  tablet  at  the  door  :  Alexandre  III.  Pont. 
Max.  pernoctanti. 

Note  20,  Page  54. 

some  from  merry  England. 

"  Recenti  victoria  exultantes,"  says  Petrarch, 
alluding,  no  doubt,  to  the  favourable  issue  of  the 
war  in  France.  This  festival  began  on  the  4th 
of  August,  1364. 

Note  21,  Page  54. 
And  lo,  the  madness  of  ihe  Carnival. 
Among  those  the  most  followed,  there  waa 
always  a  mask  in  a  magnificent  habit,  relating 
marvellous  adventures,  and  calling  himself 
Messer  Marco  Millioni.  Millioni  was  the  name 
given  by  his  fellow-citizens  in  his  life-time  to 
the  great  traveller,  Marco  Polo.  *'  I  have  seen 
him  so  described,"  says  Ramusio,  "  in  the  re* 
cords  of  the  Republic ;  and  his  house  has, 
from  that  time  to  this,  been  called  La  Corte  del 
Millioni,'   the  house  of  the  rich  man,  the  mil* 


196  ITALY. 

lionnaire.  3t  is  on  the  canal  of  S.  Giovanni 
Chrisostomo ;  and,  as  long  as  he  lived,  was 
much  resorted  to  by  the  curious  and  the  learned. 

Note  22,  Page  50. 
And  bore  away  to  the  canal  Orfano. 

A  deep  channel  beliind  the  island  of  S.  Giorgo 
Maggiore. 

Note  23,  Page  58. 
All  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everywhere. 
A  Frenchman  of  high  rank,  who  had  been 
robbed  at  Venice,  and  had  complained  in  con- 
versation of  the  negligence  of  the  Police,  was 
on  his  way  back  to  the  Terra  Firma,  when  his 
gondola  stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the 
waves.  He  inquired  the  reason  ;  and  his  gon- 
dohers  pointed  to  a  boat  with  a  red  flag,  that  had 
just  made  them  a  signal.  It  arrived  ;  and  he 
was  called  on  board.  "  You  are  the  Prince  de 
Craon  ?  Were  you  not  robbed  on  Friday  even- 
ing ? — I  was. — Of  what  ? — Of  five  hundred  du- 
cats.— And  where  were  they  ? — In  a  green 
purse. — Do  you  suspect  any  body? — I  do,  a 
servant. — Would  you  know  him  sgain? — Cer- 
tainly." The  Interrogator  with  his  foot  turned 
aside  an  old  cloak  that  lay  there  ;  and  the  Prince 
beheld  his  purse  in  the  hand  of  a  dead  man. 
"  Take  it ;  and  remember  that  none  set  their  feet 
again  in  a  country  where  they  have  presumed 
to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  government." 


ITALT.  197 

Note  24,  Page  61. 

and  he  sung, 

As  inlhe  lirr.evhen  Vei.ice  was  heiself. 

Goldoni,  describing  his  excursion  with  the 
Passalacqua,  has  left  us  a  lively  p'cture  of  this 
class  of  men. 

We  were  no  sooner  in  the  middle  of  that 
great  lagoon  which  encircles  the  city  than  our 
discreet  gondolier  drew  the  curtain  behind  us, 
and  let  us  float  at  the  will  of  the  waves. — At 
length  night  came  on,  and  we  could  not  tell 
where  we  were.  "  What  is  the  hour?"  said  I 
to  the  gondolier.  "I  cannot  guess,  sir;  but  if 
I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is  the  lover's  hour." — 
"  Let  us  go  home,"  I  replied;  and  he  turned 
the  prow  homeward,  singing  as  he  rowed,  the 
twenty-sixth  strophe  of  the  sixteenth  canto  of 
the  Jerusalem  Delivered. 

Note  25,  Page  62. 
The  young  Bianca  found  her  father's  door. 
Bianca  Capello.  It  had  been  shut  by  a  ba- 
ker's boy,  as  he  passed  by,  at  day-break  ;  and 
in  her  despair  she  fled  with  her  lover  to  Florence, 
where  he  fell  by  assassination.  Her  beauty, 
and  her  love-adventure  as  here  related,  her  mar- 
riage afterwards  with  the  Grand  Duke,  and  that 
fatal  banquet  at  which  they  were  both  poisoned 
by  the  Cardinal,  his  brother,  have  rendered  her 
history  a  romance.  The  Capello  Palace  is  on 
the  Canale  di  Canonico  ;  and  the  postern-door, 
la  porta  di  strada,  \i  still   on  its  hinges.     It 


198  ITALY. 

opens  into  one  0/  those  narro\/  alleys  so  numer* 
ous  at  Venice. 

No:.E  26,  Page  66. 

Laid  at  his  feel. 

They  were  to  be  seen  in  the  treasury  of  SU 
Mark  very  lately. 

Note  27,  Page  70. 
that  maid,  at  once  the  faireet,  noblest. 
She  was  a  Contarini ;  a  name  coeval  with  the 
llepublic,  and  illustrated  by  eight  Doges.  On 
the  occasion  of  their  marriage,  the  Bucentaur 
came  out  in  its  splendour  ;  and  a  bridge  of 
boats  was  thrown  across  the  Canal  Grande  for 
the  Bridegroom  and  his  retinue  of  three  hundred 
horse.  Sanuto  dwells  with  pleasure  on  the  cost- 
liness of  the  dresses  and  the  magnificence  of 
the  processions  by  land  and  water.  The  tourna- 
ments in  the  Place  of  St.  Mark  lasted  three 
days,  and  were  attended  by  thirty  thousand  peo- 
ple. 

Note  28,  Page  71. 
I  have  transgress'd,  offended,  wilfully. 
It  was  a  high  crime  to  solicit  the  intercession 
of  any  foreign  Prince. 

Note  29,  Page  73. 

the  invisible  Three. 

The  State-Inquisitors.     For  an  account    of 
their  authority,  set  page  52. 


Note  30,  Page  77. 
Neglect  lo  visit  Arqua. 
This  village,  says  Boccaccio,  hitherto  almost 
unknown  even  at  Padua,  is  soon  to  becomo 
famous  through  the  World ;  and  the  sailor  on 
the  Adriatic  will  prostrate  himself  when  be 
discovers  the  Euganean  hills.  "  Among  them," 
will  he  say,  "  sleeps  the  Poet  who  is  our  glory. 
Ah,  unhappy  Florence  !  You  neglecte-d  him — 
You  deserved  him  not." 

Xote31,  Page  78. 
Hulf-way  up 
He  built  his  house. 

"  I  have  built  among  the  Euganean  hills,  a 
small  house  decent  and  proper  ;  in  which  I  hope 
to  pass  the  rest  of  my  days,  thinking  always  of 
my  dead  or  absent  friends." 

When  the  Venetians  overran  the  country, 
Petrarch  prepared  for  flight.  "  Write  your 
name  over  your  door,"  said  one  of  his  friends, 
'*  and  you  will  be  safe,"  *'  I  am  not  so  sure  of 
that,"  replied  Petrarch,  and  fled  with  his  books 
to  Padua. 

His  books  he  left  to  the  Republic  of  Venice  ; 
but  they  exist  no  longer.  His  legacy  to  Francis 
Carrara,  a  Madonna  painted  by  Giotto,  is  still 
preserved  in  the  cathedral  of  Padua. 

Note  32,  Page  87. 
In  this  chapel  wrought. 
A  chapel  of  tlie  Holy  Virgin  in  the  church  o* 


200  ITALY. 

the  Carmelites.  It  is  adorned  with  his  paintings 
and  all  the  great  artists  of  Florence  studied 
there :  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  Fra  Bartolomeo, 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael, 
etc. 

He  had  no  stone,  no  inscription,  says  one  of 
his  biographers,  for  he  was  thought  little  of  in 
his  hfe-lime. 

Note  33,  Page  87. 

condemn'd  his  mortal  part 

To  fire. 

In  1302,  he  was  sentenced,  if  taken,  to  Va 
burned. 

Note  34,  Page  88. 
Nor  then  forget  that  Chamber  of  the  Dead. 
The  Chapel  de'  Depositi ;  in  which  are  the 
tombs  of  the  Medici,  by  Michael  Angelo. 

Note  35,  Page  88. 
That  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.    Mark  him  well. 
He  died  early  ;  living  only  to  become  the  fa- 
ther of  Catharine  de  Medicis.     Had  an  evil 
spirit  assumed  the  human  shape  to  propagate 
mischief,  he  could  not  have  done  better. 

The  statue  is  larger  than  the  life,  but  not  so 
large  as  to  shock  belief.  It  is  the  most  real  and 
unreal  thing   that   ever   came  from  the  chiseL 

Note  36,  Page  89. 
It  must  be  known— the  writing  on  the  wall. 
Exoriare  aliquis  nostris  ex  osaibus  ulior. 
Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  language  n  ore  ai« 


ITALY.  201 

fecting  than  his  last  testament.  It  is  addressed 
"To  God,  the  Deliverer,''  and  was  found  steep- 
ed in  his  blood. 

Note  37,  Page  90. 

That  Cosmo. 

The  first  Grand  Duke. 

Note  28,  Page  90. 
the  disconsolate  IMolhcr, 

Of  the  children  that  survived  her,  one  fell  by 
a  brother,  one  by  a  husband,  and  a  thind  mur- 
dered his  wife. 

But  that  family  was  soon  to  become  extinct. 
It  is  some  consolation  to  reflect  that  their  coun- 
try did  not  go  unrevenged  for  the  calamities 
which  they  had  brought  upon  her.  How  many 
of  them  died  by  the  hands  of  each  other  ! — 

Note  39,  Page  93. 
Came  out  into  the  meadows. 
Once,  on  a  bright  November  morning,  I  set 
out  and  traced  them,  as  I  conceived,  step  by 
step  ;  beginning  and  ending  in  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella.  It  was  a  walk  delightful 
hi  itself,  and  in  its  associations. 

Note  40,  Page  94. 
The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountaia-side. 
Three  hours  after  sun-rise. 


302  ITALY. 

Note  41,  Page  96. 
There,  unseen. 
Milton  went  to  Italy  in  1638.  "There  it 
was,"  says  he,  "  that  I  found  and  visited  the 
famous  Galileo,  grown  old,  a  prisona*  to  the 
Inquisition."  "  Old  and  blind,"  he  might  have 
said.  Galileo,  by  his  own  account,  became  blind 
in  December,  1637.  Milton,  as  we  learn  from 
the  date  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  letter  to  him, 
had  not  left  England  on  the  18th  of  April  fol- 
lowing.—See  TiRABOSCHi,  and  Wotton's  He- 
mains. 

Note  42,  Page  97. 

So  near  the  yellow  Tiber's— 

They  rise  within  thirteen  miles  of  each  other. 

Note  43,  Page  97. 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring. 
It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  first  Sforza 
went  down,  when  he  perished  in  the  Pescira 

Note  44,  Page  100. 

At  the  bridge-foot. 

Giovanni  Buondelmonte  was  on  the  point  of 

marrying  an  Amidei,  when  a  widow  of  the  Do- 

nati  family  made  him  break  his  engagement  in 

the  manner  here  described. 

_  The  Amidei  washed  away  the  affront  with 
his  blood,  attacking  him,  says  Villani,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Ponte  Veccbio  ;  and  hence  the  wars 
of  the  Guelphs  and  tha  Ghibellinea. 


irALY.  203 

O  Buondelmonle,  q  uanto  mal  fuggisti 

Le  nozze  sue,  per  gli  altrui  conforli  1    Dante. 

Note  45,  Page  101. 
It  "had  been  well,  hadsi  ihji;  slept  on,  Imelda. 
The  story  isBolognese,  and  is  toldby  Cheru- 
bino  Ghiradacci  in  his  history  of  Bologna.  Her 
lover  was  of  the  Guelphic  party,  her  brothers  of 
the  Ghibelline  ;  and  no  sooner  was  this  act  of 
violence  made  known,  than  an  enmity,  hitherto 
but  half-suppressed,  broke  out  into  open  war. 
The  Great  Place  was  a  scene  of  battle  and 
bloodshed  for  forty  successive  days  ;  nor  was  a 
reconciliation  accomplished  till  six  years  after- 
wards, when  the  families  and  their  adherents 
met  there  once  again,  and  exchanged  the  kiss 
of  peace  before  the  Cardinal  Legate  ;  as  the  ri- 
val families  of  Florence  had  already  done  in 
the  place  of  S.  Maria  Novella.  Every  house  on 
the  occasion  was  hung  with  tapestry  and  gar- 
lands of  flowers. 

Note  46,  Page  101. 

fr.)m  the  wound 

Sucking  the  poison. 

The  Saracens  had  introduced  among  them  the 
practice  of  poisoning  their  daggers. 

Note  47,  Page  101. 

Yet  when  Slavery  came, 

"Worse  foUow'd. 
It  is  remarkable  that  the  noblest  wojjks  of  hu* 


204  iTAi-y. 

man  genius  have  been  produced  in  times  of  tu- 
mult ;  when  every  man  was  his  own  master,  and 
all  things  were  open  to  all.  Homer,  Dante, 
and  Milton  appeared  in  such  times ;  and  we 
may  add  Virgil. 

Note  48,  t*AGE  102. 
Cruel  Tophana. 

A  Sicilian,  the  inventiess  of  many  poisons; 
the  most  celebrated  of  which,  from  its  transpa* 
rency,  was  called  Acquetta,  or  Acqua  Tophana. 

Note  49,  Page  104. 
Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills. 

Caffagglolo,  the  favourite  retreat  of  Cosmo, 
"  the  father  of  his  country."  Eleonora  di  To- 
ledo was  stabbed  there  on  the  11th  of  July, 
1576,  by  her  husband,  Pietro  de'  Medici ;  and 
on  the  16th  of  the  same  month,  Isabella  de' 
Medici  was  strangled  by  hers,  Paolo  Giordano 
Orsini,  in  his  villa  of  Cerroto.  They  were  at 
Florence,  when  they  were  sent  for,  each  in  her 
turn,  Isabella  under  the  pretext  of  a  hunting, 
party ;  and  each  in  her  turn  went  to  die. 

Isabella  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
accomplished  women  of  the  age.  In  the  Latin, 
French,  and  Spanish  languages,  she  spoke  not 
only  with  fluency,  but  elegance  ;  and  in  her  own 
she  excelled  as  an  Improvisatrice,  accompany- 
ing herself  on  the  lute.  On  her  arrival  at  dusk, 
Paolo  presented  her  with  two  beautiful  grey- 
hounds, that  she  might  make  a  trial  of  their 


ITALY.  205 

speed  in  the  morning ;  and  at  suppei  was  gay 
beyond  measure.  When  he  retired,  he  sent 
for  her  into  his  apartment ;  and,  pressing  her 
tenderly  to  his  bosom,  slipped  a  cord  round  her 
neck. 

Eleonora  appears  to  have  had  a  presentiment 
of  her  fate.  She  went  when  required  ;  but, 
before  she  set  out,  took  leave  of  her  son,  then 
a  child ;  weeping  long  and  bitterly  over  him. 

Note  50,  Page  114. 

the  Appian. 

The  street  of  the  tombs  in  Pompeii  may  serve 
to  give  us  some  idea  of  the  Via  Appia,  that  Re- 
gina  Viarum,  in  its  splendour.  It  is  perhaps 
the  most  striking  vestige  of  Antiquity  that  re- 
mains to  us. 

Note  51,  Page  114. 

Horace  himself. 

And  Augustus  in  his  litter,  coming  at  a  still 
slower  rate.  He  was  borne  along  by  slaves  ; 
and  the  gentle  motion  allowed  him  to  read, 
write,  and  employ  himself  as  in  his  cabinet.— 
Though  Tivoli  is  only  sixteen  miles  from  the 
City  he  was  always  two  nights  on  the  road.— 

StJETONIUS. 

Note  52,  Page  115. 

the  centre  of  iheir  Universe. 

From  the  golden  pillar  in  the  Forum  the  ways 
ran  to  the  gates,  and  from  the  gatos  to  the  ex- 
tremities of  the  Empire. 


Note  53,  Page  115. 
To  the  twelve  tables. 
The  laws  of  the  twelve  tables  were  inscribed 
on  pillars  ofbrasfs,  and  placed  in  the  most  con- 
spicuous part  of  the  Forum. — Dion.  Hal. 

Note  54,  Page  117. 

On  those  so  young,  well- pleased  wiih  all  they  see. 

In  the  triumph  of  ^milius,  nothing  affected 
the  Roman  people  like  the  children  of  Perseus. 
Many  wept ;  nor  could  any  thing  else  attract 
notice,  till  they  were  gone  by. — Plutarch. 

Note  55,  Page  131. 

And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else; 
And  dazzling  light,  and  darkness  visible. 

Whoever  has  entered  the  Church  of  St.  Pe 
ter's  or  the  Pauline  Chapel,  during  the  Exposi- 
tion of  the  Holy  Sacrament  there,  will  not  goon 
forget  the  blaze  of  the  altar,  or  the  dark  circle 
of  worshippers  kneeling  in  silence  before  it. 

Note  56,  Page  134. 
'T  was  in  her  utmost  need  ;  nor,  while  she  livefl. 

Her  back  was  at  that  time  turned  to  the  peo- 
ple ;  but  in  his  countenance  might  be  read  all 
that  was  passing.  The  Cardinal,  who  officiated, 
was  a  venerable  old  man,  evidently  unused  to 
the  ceremony  and  much  affected  by  it. 


ITALY.  207 

ISOTE  57,  Page  135. 
Tha  black  pall,  the  requiem. 
Among  other  ceremonies,  a  pall  was  thrown 
over  her,  and  a  requiem  sung. 

Note  58,  Page  169. 
The  fishing-town,  Amalfi. 
"Amalfi  fell,  after  three  hundred  years  of 
prosperity  ;  but  the  poverty  of  one  thousand 
fishermen  is  yet  dignitied  by  the  remains  of  an 
arsenal,  a  cathedral,  and  the  palaces  of  royal 
merchants." — Gibbon. 

Note  59,  Page  171. 

relics  of  ancient  Greece. 

Among  other  things  the  Pandects  of  Justi- 
nian were  found  there  in  1137.  By  the  Pisans 
they  were  taken  from  Amalfi,  by  the  Floren- 
tines from  Pisa ;  and  they  are  now  preserved 
with  rehgious  care  in  the  Laurentian  Library. 

Note  60,  Page  172. 
Serve  for  their  monument. 
By  degrees,  says  Giannone,  they  made  them- 
selves famous  through  the  world.  The  Tarini 
Amalfitani  were  a  coin  familiar  to  all  nations ; 
and  their  maritime  code  regulated  everywhere 
the  commerce  of  the  sea.  Many  churches  in 
the  East  were  by  them  built  and  endowed  :  by 
them  wa-3  hrst  founded  in  Palestine  the  most 
renowed  military  order  ot  St.  John  of  Jerusa 


208  ITALY. 

lem  ;  and  who  docs  not  know  that  tne  Mariner's 
Compass  was  invented  by  a  citizen  of  Araalfi  ? 

Note  61,  Page  175. 

and  Posidonia  roee. 

Originally  a  Greek  City  under  that  name,  and 
afterwards  a  Roman  City,  under  the  name  of 
Psesium.  See  Mitford's  Hist,  of  Greece,  chap. 
X,  sec.  2.  It  was  surprised  and  destroyed  by 
the  Saracens  at  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  cen- 
tury. 

Note  62,  Page  180. 
Wilhin  a  crazed  and  talter'd  vehicle. 
Then  degraded  and  belonging  to  a  Vetturino, 

Note  63,  Page  180. 
A  Bhield  aa  splendid  as  the  Bardi  wear. 
A  Florentine  family  of  great  antiquity.  In 
the  sixty-third  novel  of  Franco  Sacchetty  we 
read  that  a  stranger,  suddenly  entering  Giotto's 
study,  threw  down  a  shield  and  departed,  say- 
ing, "Paint  me  my  arms  in  that  shield;"  and 
that  Giotto,  looking  after  him,  exclaimed — 
"  Who  is  he  ?  What  is  he  ?  He  says,  Paint  me 
my  arms,  as  if  he  was  one  of  the  Bardi !  What 
arms  does  he  bear?" 

Note  64,  Page  182. 
Ruffling  with  many  an  oar  the  cn'stalline  sea. 
The  Feluca  is  a  large  boat  for  rowing  and 
Bailing,  much  used  in  the  Mediterranean. 


CTALT.  209 

Note  65,  Page  185. 
A  house  of  u-ade. 
When  I  saw  it  in  1822,  a  basket-mjiker  lived 
en  th«}  ground-floor,  and   over   him  a  seller  of 
chocolate. 

Note  GG,  Page  186. 
Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflecled- 
Alluding  to  the  Palace  which  he  built  after- 
wards and  in  which  he   twice  entertained  the 
Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth.  It  is  the  ir.ost  mag« 
Bificent  edifice  on  the  bay  of  Geui*. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


ARGUMENT. 

Introduction— Ringing  of  bells  in  a  neighbouring  Village 
on  the  binhof  an  heir— General  Reflections  on  Human 
Life— The  Subject  Proposed— Childhood— Youth- 
Manhood— Love— Marriage— Domestic  Happiness  and 
Ajiiictinn— War— Peace — Civil  Dissension— Retire- 
ment from  active  Life— Old  Age  and  its  Enjoymenia 
—Conclusion. 


The  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky : 
The  bees  have  humm'd  their  noon-tide  lullaby. 
Still  in  the  vale  the  vi.iuge-bells  ring  round, 
Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound: 
For  now  the  caudle-CKp  is  circling  there, 
Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their 

prayer, 
And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire, 
The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A  few  shori  years — and  then   these   sounds 
shall  haii 
The  day  again,  and  giadness  fill  the  vale ; 
So  soon  the  ctkla  a  vouth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  ^e  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  tbs  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin ; 
The  ale  now  brew'd,  in  flood?  of  amber  shine . 

211 


212  HUMAN    LIFE. 

And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  I  laze, 
'Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  alJ  her  ills  beguiled, 
"  'T  was   on   these  knees   he   sate   so  oft  and 
smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze  ; 
Soon,  issuing   forth,  shall   glitter   through   the 

trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white  ;  and  hymns  be  sung. 
And  violets  scatter  d  round  ;  and  old  and  young, 
In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green. 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene  ; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas,  nor  in  a  distant  hour. 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower; 
When  in  dim  chambers  Ion  y  black  weeds  are 

seen. 
And  weepings  heard  wliere  only  joy  has  been ; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more. 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  be- 
fore. 

And  such  is  Human  Life  ;  so  gliding  on. 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone  ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, 
As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wondrous  change, 
As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require, 
Stretch'd  in  the  desert  round  their  evening  fire; 
As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 
To  minstrel-harps  at  midnight's  witching  hour! 

Born  in  a  trance,  we  wake,  observe,  inquire  ; 


HUMAK   LIFE.  213 

And  the  green  earth,  the  azure  sky  admire. 

Of  Elfin-size — for  ever  as  we  run, 

We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun ! 

And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace  is  won! 

We  grow  in  wisdom,  and  in  stature  too  I 

And,  as  new  scenes,  new  objects  rise  to  view, 

Think  nothing  done  while  aught  remains  to  do. 

Yet,  all  forget,  how  oft  the  eye-lids  close, 
And  from  the  slack  hand  drops  the  gather'd  rose  I 
How  oft,  as  dead,  on  the  warm  turf  we  lie, 
While  many  an  emmet  comes  with  curious  eye ; 
And  on  her  nest  the  watchful  wren  sits  by  ! 
N'or  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or  see  ; 
So  like  what  once  we  were,  and  once   again 
shall  be. 

And  say,  how  soon,  where,  blithe  as  innocent, 
The  boy  at  sun-rise  whistled  as  he  went, 
An  aged  pilgrim  on  his  staff  shall  lean. 
Tracing  in  vain  the  footsteps  o'er  the  green ; 
The  man  himself  how  alter'd,  not  the  scene  ! 
Now  journeying  home  with  nothing  but  the 

name  ! 
Way^fjorn  and  spent,  another  and  the  same ! 

No  eye  observes  the  growth  or  the  decay: 
To-day  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday  ; 
And  we  shall  look  to-morrow  as  to-day : 
Yet  while  the  loveliest  smiles,  her  locks  gro^ 

_  grey  ! 
And  in  her  glass  could  she  but  see  the  face 
She  '11  see  so  soon  amidst  another  race, 
How  would  she  ohriak  ! — Returning  from  afar, 
After  som.e  years  of  travel,  some  of  war. 


214  HUSIAN    LirL. 

Within  his  gate  Ulysses  stood  iiviknoT^n 

Before  a  wite,  a  father,  and  a  son  ! 
And  such  is  Human  Life,  the  general  theme. 

Ah,  what  at  best,  what  but  a  longer  dream  ? 

Though  with  such  wild  romantic  wanderings 
fraught, 

Such    forms    in    Fancy's    richest    colouring 
wrought, 

That,  like  the  visions  of  a  love-sick  brain, 

Who  would  not  sleep  and   dream  them  o'er 
again  ? 
Our  pathway  leads  but  to  a  precipice  ; 

And  all  must  follow,  fearful  as  it  is ! 

From  the  first  step  't  is  known ;  but — No  delay ! 

On,  'tis  decreed.     We  tremble  and  obey. 

A  thousand  ills  beset  us  as  we  go. 

— "  Still,  could  I  shun  the  fatal  gulf" — Ah,  no 

'T  is  all  in  vain — the  inexorable  law  I 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  we  draw. 

Verdure  springs  up  ;  and  fruits  and  flowers  in- 
vite. 

And  groves  and  fountains — all  things  that  de- 
light 

"  Oh,  I  would  stop,  and  linger  if  I  might'."— 

We  fly  ;  no  resting  for  the  foot  we  find  ; 

And  dark  before,  all  desolate  behind  ! 

At  length  the  brink  appears — but  one  siep  more'. 

We  faint — On,  on  I — we  falter — and  'tis  o'er  ! 
Yet  here  high  passions,  high  desires  unfold, 

Prompting  to  noblest  deeds  ;  here  links  of  gold 

Bind  soul  to  soul ;  and  thoughts  divine  inspire 

A  thirst  unquenchable,  a  holy  fire 


HUMUf   LIFE.  215 

Thdt  will  not,  cannot  but  with  life  expire  ! 

Now,  seraph- wing' d,  among   the   stars   we 
soar ; 
Now,  distant  ages,  like  a  day,  explore, 
And  judge  the  act,  the  actor  now  no  more ; 
Or,  in  a  thankless  hour  condemn'd  to  live, 
From  others  claim  what  these  refuse  to  give, 
And  dart,  like  Milton,  an  unerring  eye 
Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity. 

Wealth,  Pleasure,  Ease,   all  thought  of  self 
resign'd. 
What  will  not  Man  encounter  for  Mankind  ? 
Behold  him  now  unbar  the  prison-door. 
And,  lifting  Guilt,  Contagion  from  the  floor, 
To   Feace   and   Health,  and   Light   and  Life 

restore  ; 
Now  in  Thermopylae  remain  to  share 
Death — nor  look  back,  nor  turn  a  footstep  there, 
Leaving  his  story  to  the  birds  of  air; 
And  now  like  Fylades  (in  Heaven  they  write 
Names  such  as  his  in  characters  of  light) 
Long  with  his  friend  in  generous  enmity. 
Pleading,  insisting  in  his  place  to  die! 

Do  what  he  will,  he  cannot  realize 
Half  he  conceives — the  glorious  vision  flies. 
Go  where  he  may,  he  caimot  hope  to  find 
The  truth,  the  beauty  pictured  in  his  mind. 
But  if  by  chance  an  object  strike  the  sense, 
The  faintest  shadow  of  that  Excellence, 
Passions,  that  slept,  are  stirring  in  his  frame ; 
Thoughts  undefined,  feelings  without  a  name  . 
And  some,  not  here  call'd  forth,  may  slumber  ot 


216  HUMAN    LIFE. 

Till  this  vain  pageant  of  a  world  is  gone ; 
Lying  too  deep  for  things  that  perish  here, 
Waiting  for  liie — but  in  a  nobler  sphere  ! 

Look  where  he  comes  !  Rejoicing  in  his  birth, 
Awhile  he  moves  as  in  a  heaven  on  earth ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars — the  land,  the  sea,  the  sky 
To  him  shine  out  as  't  were  a  galaxy  ! 
But  soon  't  is  past — the  light  has  died  away  ! 
With  him  it  came  (it  was  not  of  the  day) 
And  he  himself  diffused  it,  like  the  stone 
That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own, 
Making  night  beautiful.    'Tis  past,  'tis  gone, 
And  in  his  darkness  as  he  journeys  on 
Nothing  revives  him  but  the  blessed  ray 
That  now  breaks  in,  nor  ever  knows  decay. 
Sent  from  a  better  world  to  light  him  on  his  way. 

How  great  the  Mystery  !    Let  others  sing 
The  circling  Year,  the  promise  of  the  Spring, 

The  Summer's  glory,  and  the  rich  repose 

Of  Autumn,  and  the  Winter's  silvery  snows, 

Man  through  the  changing  scene  let  me  pursue, 

Himself  how  wondrous  in  his  changes  too  ! 

Not  Man  the  sullen  savage  in  his  den; 

But  Man  call'd  forth  in  fellowship  with  men; 

School'd  and  train' d   up  to  Wisdom  from  his 
birth ; 

God's  noblest  work — His  image  upon  earth  ! 
The  hour  arrives,  the   moment  wish'd  and 
fear'd ; 

The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endear'd. 

And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  crv; 

Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye  ! 


HUMAN  LIFE.  217 

He   comes — she   clasps   him.    To   her  bosom 

press'd, 
He  drinks  ihe  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 
Her  by  her  smile   how  soon  the   Stranger 
knows ; 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows ! 
As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 
What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  ! 
He  walks,  he  speaks.    In  many  a  broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies. 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Lock'd  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung, 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue) 
As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings 
And  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  singa, 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,    and  kiss  for  kisa 

impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love  ! 

But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer, 
Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there  ! — 
And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His    wandering    eye  —  now   many   a    written 

thought 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a  lisping  sweet 
His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavour  to  re- 
peat. 
Released,  he  chases  the  bright  butterfly  ; 
Oh  he  would  tbilovv — follow  through  the  sky  I 


2!8  HUMAN  LIFE. 

Climba   tlic   gaunt  mastiff  slumb:?Ting  in   bia 

chain, 
And  chides  and  bufibts,  clinging  by  the  mane ; 
Then  runs,  and,  kneeling  by  the  fountain-side, 
Sends  his  brave  ship  in  triumph  down  the  tide, 
A  dangerous  voyage  ;  or,  if  now  he  can, 
If  now  he  wears  the  habit  of  a  man, 
Fhngs  off  the  coat  so  long  his  pride  and  pleasure 
And,  like  a  miser  digging  for  his  treasure, 
His  tiny  spade  in  his  own  garden  plies, 
And  in  green  letters  sees  his  name  arise  ! 
Where'er  he  goes,  for  ever  in  her  sight. 
She  looks,  and  looks,  and  still  with  new  delight ' 

Ah  who,  when  fading  of  itself  away, 
Would  cloud  the  sunshine  of  his  little  day  ! 
Now  is  the  May  of  Life.     Careering  round, 
Joy  wings   his  feet,  Joy  lifts   him   from   the 

ground ! 
Pointing  to  such,  well  might  Cornelia  say, 
When  the  rich  casket  shone  in  bright  array, 
"  These  are  my  Jewels  !"    Well  of  such  as  he, 
When  Jesus  spake,  well  might  his  language  be, 
"  Suffer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me  !" 

Thoughtful  by  fits,  he  scans  and  he  reveres 
The   brow   engraven    with   the    Thoughts    ot 

Years ; 
Close  by  her  side  his  silent  homage  given 
As  to  some  pure  Intelligence  from  Heaven  ; 
His  eyes  cast  downward  with  ingenuous  shame. 
His  conscious  checks,  conscious   of  praise  oi 

blame, 
.At  once  lit  up  as  with  a  holy  flame ! 


HUMAN   LIFE.  219 

He  thirsts  for  knowledge,  speaks  but  to  inquire ; 
And  soon  with  tears  relinquij^h'd  to  the  Sire, 
Soon  in  his  hand  to  Wisdom's  temple  led, 
Hold  secret  converse  with  'he  Mighty  Dead  , 
Trembles  and  thrills  and  \s  eeps  as  they  inspire, 
Burns  as  they  burn,  and  with  congenial  fire  ! 
Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate, 
Crown'd  but  to  die — who  in  her  chamber  sate 
Musing  with  Plato,  though  the  horn  was  blown, 
And  every  ear  and  every  heart  was  won, 
And  all  in  green  array  were  chasing  down  the 
sun ! 
Then  is  the  age  of  Admiration — Then 
Gods  walk  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men, 
Who  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round, 
Whose  very  shadows  consecrate  the  ground ! 
Ah,  then  comes  thronging  many  a  wild  desire, 
And  high  imagining  and  thought  of  fire  ! 
Then  from  within  a  voice  exclaims  "  Aspire  !" 
Phantoms,  that  upward  point,  before  him  pass, 
As  in  the  Cave  athwart  the  Wizard's  glass; 
They,  that  on  Youth  a  grace,  a  lustre  shed, 
Of  every  age — the  living  and  the  dead  ! 
Thou,  all-accomplish' d  Surrey,  thou  art  known  ; 
The   flower   of  Knighthood,  nipt   as   soon   aa 

blown  ! 
Melting  all  hearts  but  Geraldine's  alone  ! 
And,  with  his  beaver  up,  discovering  there 
One  who  lov'd  less  to  conquer  than  to  spare, 
Lo  the  Black  Warrior,  he.  who,  battle-spent, 
Bare-hctided  served  the  Captive  in  his  tent! 
Young  B in  the  groves  of  Academe, 


220  HUMAN  LIFE. 

Or  wliere  Ilyssus  winds  his  whispering  stream; 
Or  where  the  wild  bees  swarm  with  ceaseless 

hum, 
Dreaming  old  dreams — a  joy  for  years  to  come; 
Or  on  the  Rock  \vi:hin  ilie  sacred  Fane; — 
Scenes  such  as  Milton  sought,  but  sought  in 

vain  : 
And  Milton's  self  (at  that  thrice-honoured  name 
Weil   may  we  glow — as  men,   we    share  his 

fame) — 
And  Milton's  self,  apart  with  beaming  eye, 
Planning  he  knows  nor  what — that  shall  not  die! 

Oh  in  thy  truth  secure,  thy  virtue  bold,"* 
Beware  the  poison  in  the  cup  of  gold, 
The  asp  among  the  nowers.     Thy  heart  beats 

high. 
As  bright  and  brighter  breaks  the  distant  sky  ! 
But  every  step  is  on  enchanted  ground  ; 
Danger  thou  lovest,  and  Danger  haunts  thee 

round. 
Who  spurs  his  horse  against  the  mountain- 
side ; 
Then,  phmging,  slakes  his  fury  in  the  tide  ? 
Draws.,  and  cries  ho  ;  and,  where  the  sun-beams 

fall. 
At  his  own  shadow  thrusts  along  the  wall  ? 
Who  dances  without  music  ;  and  anon 
Sings  like  the  lark — th^n  sighs  as  woe-begone. 
And  folds  his  arms,  and,   where  the  willowa 

wave. 
Glides  in  the  moon-shine  by  a  maiden's  grave' 
Come  hither,  boy,  and  clear  thy  open  brow: 


HUMAN    ,IFE.  221 

Yon  summer-clc'uds,  now  like  the  Alps,  and  now 
A  ship,  a  whale,  change  not  so  fast  as  thou. 
He  hears  me  not — 'I'hose  sighs  were  from  the 
heart ; 
Too,  too  well  taught,  he  plays  the  lover's  part. 
He  who  at  masques,  nor  leigning  nor  sincere, 
With  sweet  discourse  would  win  a  lady's  ear, 
Lie  at  her  feet,  and  on  her  slipper  swear 
That  none  were  half  so  taultless,  half  so  fair, 
Now  through  the  forest  hies,  a  stricken  deer, 
A  banish'd  man,  flying  when  none  are  near; 
And  writes  on  every  tree,  and  lingers  long 
Where  most  the  nightingale  repeats  her  song ; 
Where  most  the  nymph,  that  haunts  the  silent 

grove, 
Delights  to  syllable  the  names  we  love. 

Two  on  his  steps  attend,  in  motly  clad; 
One  woeful-wan,  one  merrier  yet  as  mad; 
Called  Hope  and  Fear.  Hope  shakes  his  cap  and 

bells. 
And  flowers   spring  up  among  the  woodland 

dells. 
To  Hope  he  listens,  wandering  without  measure 
Through  sun  and  shade,  lost  in  a  trance  of  plea- 
sure ; 
And,  if  to  Fear  but  for  a  weary  mile, 
Hope  follows  fast  and  wins  him  with  a  smile. 
At  length  he  goes — a  Pilgrim  to  the  Shrine 
And  for  a  relic  would  a  world  resign  ! 
A  glove,  a  shoe-tie,  or  a  flower  let  fall — 
What  thou2:li  the  least,  Love  consecrates  them 
ali:^ 


B22  HUMAN  LIFE. 

And  now  he  breathes  in  many  a  plaintive  verse 
Now  wins  the  dull  ear  of  the  wily  nurse 
At  early  matins  ('t  was  at  matin-time 
That  first  he  saw  and  sicken'd  in  his  prime), 
And  soon  the  Sibyl,  in  her  thirst  for  gold, 
Plays  with  young  hearts  that  will  not  be  con- 
troU'd. 
"Absence  from  Thee — as  self  from  self  it 


seems 


I" 


Scaled  is  the  garden-wall !  and  lo,  her  beams 
Silvering  the  east,  the  moon  comes  up,  revealing 
His  well-known  form  along  the  terrace  stealing. 
—Oh,  ere  in  sight  he  came,  'twas  his  to  thrill 
A  heart  that  loved  him  though  in  secret  still. 
"  Am  I  awake  ?  or  is  it — can  it  be 
An  idle  dream  ?  Nightly  it  visits  me  ! 
—That  strain,"  she  cries,  "  as  from  the  water 

rose 
Now  near   and  nearer   through  the   shade  it 

flows  !— 
Now  sinks  departing — sweetest  in  its  close  !'* 
No  casement  gleams ;  no  Juliet,  like  the  day, 
Comes  forth  and  speaks  and  bids  her  lover  stay. 
Still,  like  aerial  n;usic  heard  from  far, 
Nightly  it  rises  with  the  evening-star. 

— "She  loves  another!  Love  was  in  that  sigh!" 
On  the  cold  ground  he  throws  himself  to  die. 
Fond  Youth,  beware.  Thy  heart  is  most  de- 
ceiving. 
Who  wish  are  fearful ;  who  suspect,  believing. 
—And  soon  her  looks  the  rapturous  truth  avow 
Lovely  before,  oh,  say  how  lovely  now! 


HUMAN  LIFE.  223 

She  flies  not,  fro\vn3  not,  though  he  pleads  his 

cause  ; 
Nor  yet — nor  yet  her  hand  from  his  withdraws ; 
But  by  some  secret  Power  surprised,  subdued 
(Ah  how  resist  ?  Nor  would  she  if  she  could), 
Falls  on  his  neck  as  half  unconscious  where, 
Glad  to  conceal  her  tears,  her  blushes  there. 

Then  come  those  full  confidings  of  the  past ; 
All  sunshine  now  where  all  was  overcast. 
Then  do  they  wander  till  the  day  is  gone, 
Lost  in  each  other  ;  and  when  Night  steals  on, 
Covering  them  round,  how  sweet  her  accents 

are  ! 
Oh  when  she  turns  and  speaks,  her  voice  is  far, 
Far  above  singing  ! — But  soon  nothing  stirs 
To  break  the  silence — Joy  like  his,  like  hers. 
Deals  not  in  words  :  and  now  the  shadows  close. 
Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light  she  grows 
Less  and  less  earthly  1  As  departs  the  day 
All  that  was  mortal  seems  to  melt  away. 
Till,  like  a  gift  resumed  as  soon  as  given, 
She  fades  at  last  into  a  Spirit  from  Heaven ! 
Then  are  they  blest  indeed ;   and  swift  the 

hours 
Till  her  young  Sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  flowers 
Kindling  her  beauty — while,  unseen,  the  least 
Twitches  her  robe,  then  runs  behind  the  rest, 
Known  by  her  laugli  that  will  not  be  suppress'd 
Then  before  All  they  stand — the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now. 
Bind  her  as  his.     Across  the  threshold  led. 
And  every  tear  kiss'd  off  as  soon  as   shed, 


224  HUMAN  LIFE. 

His  house  she  enters — tliere  to  be  a  light. 
Shining  within,  wl:en  all  without  is  night; 
A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares  dividing, 
Winning  hinr     back,  when   mingling    in    th» 

throng, 
Back  from  a  world  we  love,  alas,  too  long, 
To  fire-side  happiness,  to  hours  of  ease. 
Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty  to  please. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his  ;  her  gentle  mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inrclined ; 
Still  subject — ever  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell, 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell; 
And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  ^g^tly- 

pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  ! 

Nor  many  moons  o'er  hill  and  valley  rise 
Ere  to  the  gate  with  nymph-like  step  she  flies, 
And  their  first-born  holds  forth,  their  darling 

boy, 
With  smiles  how  sweet,  how  full  of  love  and 

joy 

To  meet  him  coming;  theirs  through  every  year 
Pure  transports,  such  as  each  to  each  endear  ! 
And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 
Their  halls  with  gladness.     She,  when  all  ara 

still, 
Comes  and  undravv's  the  curtain  as  they  lie, 
In  sleep  how  beautiful  I     He,  when  the  sky 
Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony, 


HUMAN  L^FE.  225 

When,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to 

share 
His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 
Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair, 
Up  to  the  hill-top  leads  their  little  feet ; 
Or  by  the  forest-lodge,  perchance  to  meet 
The  stag-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 
The  otter  rustling  in  the  sedgy  mere  ; 
Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 
That  gave  him  back  his  words  of  pleasantry — 
When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than 

he! 
And,  as  they  wander  with  a  keen  delight. 
If  but  a  leveret  catch  their  quicker  sight 
Down  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 
Climb  the  gnarl'd    oak,  and  look  and    climb 

again, 
If  but  a  moth  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall, 
He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them 

all; 
These  with  unequal  footsteps  following  fast, 
These  clinging  by  his  cloak,  unwilling  to  be  last. 

The  shepherd  on  Tornaro's  misty  brow. 
And  the  swart  sea-man,  sailing  far  below, 
Not  undelighted  watch  the  morning  ray 
Purpling  the  orient — till  it  breaks  away. 
And  burns  and  blazes  into  glorious  day  ! 
Bit  happier  still  is  he  who  bends  to  trace 
That  sun,  the  soul,  just  dawning  in  the  face ; 
The  burst,  the  glow,  the  animating  strife, 
The  thoughts  and  passions  stirring  into  life  ;  , 
The  forming  utterance,  the  inquiring  glance, 
15 


226  HUMAN  LIFE. 

The  giant  waking  from  his  ten-Lid  trance, 
Till  up  he  starts  as  conscious  whence  he  camOt 
And  all  is  light  within  the  trembling  frame  ! 

What  then  a  Father's  feelings  ?  Joy  and  Fear 
Prevail  in  turn,  Joy  most;  and  through  the  year 
Tempering  the  ardent,  urging  night  and  day 
Him  who  shrinks  back  or  wanders  from  the  way, 
Praising  each  highly — from  a  wish  to  raise 
Their  merits  to  the  level  of  his  Praise. 
Onward  in  their  observing  sight  he  moves, 
Fearful  of  wrong,  in  awe  of  whom  he  loves ! 
Their  sacred  presence  who  shall  dare  profane  ? 
Who,  when  He  slumbers  hope  to  fix  a  stain? 
He  lives  a  model  in  his  life  to  show, 
That,  when  he  dies  and  through  the  world  they 

go, 
Some  men  may  pause  and  say,  when  some  ad- 
mire, 
"  They  are  his  sons,  and  worthy  of  their  sire !" 

But  Man  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark  ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming 

fire. 
And  Innocence  breathes  contagion — all  but  one, 
But  she  who  gave  it  birth — from  her  alone 
The  medicine-cup  is  taken.  Through  the  night, 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by, 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  airiious  eye  : 


HITMAN  LIFE. 

WTiile  they  without,  listening  beIo\r,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love?) 
From  every  Uttle  noise  catch  hope  and  fear, 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress. 

Such  giief  was  ours — it  seems  but  yesterday— 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'T  was  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  Sister's  arms  to  die  ! 
Oh  thou  wert  lovely — lovely  was  thy  frame. 
And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  Heaven  it  came ! 
And,  when  recall'd  to  join  the  blest  above, 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceeding  love. 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.    In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers, 
Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  bad'st  me  v/riteon  thee  ; 
And  now  I  write — what  thou  shalt  never  see  ! 

At  length  the  Father,  vain  his  power  to  save, 
Follows  his  child  in  silence  to  the  grave, 
(That  child  how  cherish'd,  whom  he  would  not 

give. 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  for  all  that  live  !) 
Takes  a  last  look,  when,  not  unheard,  the  spade 
Scatters  the  earth  as  "dust  to  dust"  is  said, 
Takes  a  last  look  and  goes  ;  his  best  relief 
Consoling  others  in  that  hour  of  grief, 
And  with  sweet  tears  and  gentle  words  infasing 
The  holy  calm  that  leads  to  heavenly  musing. 

— But  hark,  the  din  of  arms !  no  time  for  sor- 
row 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  A  day  of  blood  to-morrow' 


228  HUMAN  LIFE. 

One  parting  pang,  and  then — and  then  I  flf, 
Fly  to  the  field,  to  triumph— or  to  die  !  — 
He  goes,  and  Night  comes  on  as  it  never  curat' 
With  skrieks  of  horror  I — and  a  vairU  of  flame* 
And  lo  !  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  river  by  ;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  without  his  rider  stands  ! 
But  liush  ! — a  shout  from  the  victorious  bands' 
And  oh  the  smiles  and  tears,  a  sire  restored  ! 
One  wears  his  helm,  one  buckles  on  his  sword. 
One  hangs  the  Avall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  &IJ 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  She  best-loved,  till  then  forsaken  never. 
CHngs  round  his  neck  as  she  would  cling  forevti' 

Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days, 
Djays  of  domestic  peace — by  him  who  plaj'S 
On  the  great  stage  how  uneventful  thought  f 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 
A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 
To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sting  behind  ! 
Such  as  the  heart  delights  in — and  records 
Within  how  silently — in  more  than  words  I 
A  Holiday — the  frugal  banquet  sptt'ad 
On  the  fresh  herbage  near  the  fountain-head 
With  quips  and  cranks — what  time  the  wood 

lark  there 
Scatters  her  loose  notes  on  the  sultry  air, 
What  time  the  king-fisher  sits  perch' d  belovr. 
Where,  silver-bright,  the  water-lilies  blow:— 
A  Wake — the   booths  whitening  the  village- 
green, 
Where  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen* 


HUMAN    LIFE.  229 

Sign  beyond  sign  in  close  array  unfurl'd, 
Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world ; 
And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale, 
Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale, 
All,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale  : — 
A  Wedding-dance — a  dance  into  the  night 
On  the  barn-lloor,  when  maiden-feet  are  light; 
When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promised 

dower, 
And  flowers  are  flung,  herself  a  fairer  flower  :— 
A  morning  visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 
(Who  would  be  rich  while  One  was  wanting 

bread  ?) 
When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief. 
And  tears  are  falling  fast — but  not  for  grief: — 
A  Walk  in  Spring — Grattan,  hke  those  with 

thee. 
By  the  heath-side  Cwho  had  not  envied  me  ?) 
When  the  sweet  limes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 
Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  boughs  at  noon ; 
And   thou  didst  say  which  of  the  Great  and 

Wise, 
Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise, 
Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question. 

Graver  things 
Come  in  their  turn.     Morning,  and  Evening, 

brings 
Its  holy  office  ;  and  the  sabbath-bell, 
That  over  wood  and  wild  and  mountain-dell 
Wanders  so  far,  chasing  all  thoughts  unholy 
With  sounds  most  musical,  most  melancholy, 
Nc*'-  on  his  ear  is  lost.     Then  he  pursues 


230  HU.'IAJf   LIFE. 

The  pathivay  leading  through  the  aged  yewBj 
Nor  unattended  ;  and,  when  all  are  there, 
Pours  out  his  spirit  in  the  House  of  Prayer, 
That  House  with  many  a  funeral-garland  hung 
Of  virgin-white — memorials  of  the  young, 
The  last  yet  fresh  when  marriage-chimes  were 

ringing, 
And  hope  and  joy  in  other  hearts  were  sp^i'-ijring ; 
That  house,  where  Age  led  in  by  Filial  Love, 
Their  looks  composed,  their  thought3  o.i  things 

above. 
The  world  forgot,  or  all  its  wrong&  forr;iven 
Who    would   not   say    they  trod   ihe   path  to 

Heaven  ? 
Nor  at  the  fragrant  hour — a.t  ea-ily  dawn — 
Under  the  elm-tree  on  his  level  lawn, 
Or  in  his  porch  is  he  less  duly  foi'.nd, 
When  they  that  cry  for  Jus'.ice  goiher  round-. 
And  in  that  cry  her  sacred  voice  i'j  drown' d 
His  then  to  hear  and  wyigh  aad  arbitrate. 
Like  Alfred  judging  at  his  pa'.aco-gale. 
Heal'd  at  his  touch,  the  wounds  of  discord  close  ; 
And  they  return  as  friends,  that  came  as  foes. 
Thus,  while  the  v/orld  but  claims  its  proper 

part, 
Oft  in  the  head,  but  never  in  the  heart, 
His  life  steals  on  ;  within  his  quiet  d".^'elUng 
That  home-felt  joy  all  other  joys  exceliuig. 
Sick  of  the  crowd,  when  enters  he — ujc  tlien 
Forgets  the  cold  indifference  of  moa'/ 
-Soon  through    the    gaddin;j   vli.e    the    sua 

.ooks  iU; 


HUMAN    LIFE.  231 

And  gendc  hands  the  breakfast-rite  begin. 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin-song, 
Then  fragrant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong 
Blend  as  they  rise  ;  and  (while  without  are  seen. 
Sure  of  their  meal,  the  small  birds  on  the  green  ; 
And  in  from  far  a  school-boy's  letter  flies, 
Flashing  the  sister's  cheek  with  glad  surprise) 
That  sheet  unfolds  (who  reads,  that  reads  it  not  ?) 
Born  with  the  day  and  with  the  day  forgot ; 
Its  ample  page  various  as  human  life, 
The  pomp,  the  woe,  the  bustle  and  the  strife ! 

But  nothing  lasts.     In  Autumn  at  his  plow 
Met  and  solicited,  behold  him  now 
Leaving  that  humbler  sphere  his  fathers  knew, 
The  sphere  that  Wisdom  loves — and  Virtue  too, 
She  who  subsists  not  on  the  vain  applause 
Misjudging  man  now  gives  and  now  withdraws. 

"T  was  morn — the  sky-lark  o'er  the  furrow 
sung, 
As  from  his  lips  the  slow  consent  was  wrung ; 
As  from  the  glebe  his  fathers  till'd  of  old, 
The  plow  they  guided  in  an  age  of  gold, 
Down  by  the  beech-wood  side  he  turn'd  away  :— 
And  now  behold  him  in  an  evil  day 
Serving  the  State  again — not  as  before. 
Not  foot  to  foot,  the  war-whoop  at  his  door,— 
But  in  the  Senate  :  and  (though  round  him  fly 
The  j'^st,  the  sneer,  the  subtle  sophistry. 
With  honest  dignity,  with  manly  sense. 
And  every  charm  of  natural  eloquence, 
Like   Hampden  struggling   in  his    Country'^ 
cause, 


232  HU3IAN   LIFE. 

The  first,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws, 
The  last  to  brook  oppression.     On  he  moves, 
Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves, 
Careless  of  ruin — ("  For  the  general  good 
'T  is  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 
On  through  that  gate  misnamed,  through  which 

before 
Went  Sidney,  Russel,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More, 
On  into  twilight  within  walls  of  stone, 
Then  to  the  place  of  trial ;  and  alone. 
Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 
Stands  for  his  life  :  there,  on  that  awful  day. 
Counsel  of  friends — all  human  help  denied — 
All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide, 
Like  that  sweet  Saint  who  sate  by  Russel's  side. 
Under  the  Judgment-seat, — But  guilty  men 
Triumph  not  always.     To  his  hearth  again, 
Again  with  honour  to  his  hearth  restored, 
Lo,  in  the  accustom' d  chair  and  at  the  board. 
Thrice  greeting  those  who  most  withdraw  theil 

claim, 
(The  lowliest  servant  calling  by  his  name) 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all. 
All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival ! 
—On  the  day  destined  for  his  funeral ! 
Lo,  there  the  Friend,  who  entering  where  ha 

lay. 
Breathed  in  his  drowsy  ear,  "  Away,  away.' 
Take  thou  my  cloak— Nay,  start  not,  but  obey — 
Take   it  and  leave   me."     And  the  blushing 

aiaid, 


HUMAN    LIFE.  23S 

Who  throfugh  the  streets  as  through  a  desert 

stray'd ; 
And,  when  her  dear,  dear  Father  pass'd  along, 
Would  not  be  held — but,  bursting  through  the 

throng, 
Halberd   and  battle-axe — kiss'd  him  o'er  and 

o'er ; 
Then  turn'd  and  went — then  sought  him  as 

before, 
Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more ! 
And  oh,  how  changed  at  once — no  heroine  here, 
But  a  weak,  woman  worn  with  grief  and  fear, 
Her   darling   Mother!    'Twas    but    now   she 

smiled. 
And  now  she  weeps  upon  her  weeping  child 
— But  who  sits  by,  her  only  wish  below 
At  length  fulfiU'd— and  now  prepared  to  go  ? 
His  hands  on  hers — as  through  the  mists  of  night 
She  gazes  on  him  with  imperfect  sight ; 
Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight ! 
To  her,  methinks,  a  second  Youth  is  given ; 
The  light  upon  her  face  a  light  from  Heaven  ! 

An  hour  like  this  is  worth  a  thousand  pass'd 
In  pomp  or  ease — 'T  is  present  to  the  last ! 
Years  glide  away  untold — 'Tis  still  the  same! 
As  fresh,  as  fair  as  on  the  day  it  came  ! 

And  now  once  more  where  most  he  loved  to  be 
In  his  own  fields — breathing  tranquility — 
We  hail  him — not  less  happy,  Fox,  than  thea! 
Thee  at  S'..  Anne's  so  soon  of  care  beguiled, 
Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  chila! 


234  HUMAN    LIFE. 

Thee,  who  wouldst  watch  a  bird's  nest  on  tho 

spray 
Through  tlie  green  leaves  exploring,  day  by  day. 
How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  peat  to  seat, 
With  thee  conversing  in  thy  loved  retreat, 
I   saw  the   sun  go   down ! — Ah,   then   't  was 

thine 
Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine, 
Shakspear's  or  Dryden's — through  the  chequer'd 

shade 
Borne  in  thy  hand  behind  thee  as  we  stray'd ; 
And  where  we  sate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made) 
To  read  there  with  a  fervour  all  thy  own, 
And  in  thy  grand  and  melancholy  tone. 
Some  splendid  passage  not  to  thee  unknown, 
Fit  theme  for   long   discourse — Thy   bell  has 

toll'd ! 
— But  in  thy  place  among  us  we  behold 
One  who  resembles  thee. 

'T  is  the  sixth  hour. 
The  village-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  plowman  leaves  the  field;  the  traveller 

hears, 
And  to  the  inn  spurs  forwara.     Nature  wears 
Her  sweetest  smile  ;  the  day-star  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistle's  down  at  rest. 
And   such,    his   labour  done,  the  calm  He 

knows. 
Whose  footsteps  we  have  follovv'd.     Round  him 

glows 
An  atmosphere  t\iat  brightens  to  the  last 


HU3IAN    LIFE.  235 

The  light,  .hat  shines,  reflected  from  the  Past, 
— And  from  the  Future  too !    Active  in  Thought 
Among  old  books,  old  friends  ;    and  not  un- 
sought 
By  the  wise  stranger — in  his  morning-hours, 
AVhen  gentle  airs  stir  the  fresh-blowing  flowers, 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed  ; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Watches  his  bees  at  hiving-time  ;  and  now, 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard-bough, 
Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  air, 
The  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  golden  pear, 
'^iMid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  therew 
At  night,  when  all,  assembling  round  the  fire, 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 
A  tale  is  told  of  India  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golcond  or  Astracan, 
^Vhat  time  wild  Nature  revell'd  unrestrain'd. 
And  Sinbad  voyaged  and  the  Caliphs  reign'd  :— 
Of  some  Norwegian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Rings  in  her  shrouds  and  beats  her  iron-sail, 
Among  the  snowy  Alps  of  Polar  seas 
Im.movable — for  ever  there  to  freeze  ! 
Or  some  great  caravan,  from  well  to  well 
Winding  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell, 
In  their  long  march,  such  as  the  Prophet  bids, 
To  Mecca  from  the  land  of  Pyramids, 
And  in  an  instant  lost — a  hollow  wave 
Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave! — 
Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Venice — to  a  square 
Glittering  with  light,  all  nations  masking  there, 
With  light  re£?cted  on  the  tremulous  tide, 


236  HUMAN   LIFE. 

Where  gondolas  in  gay  confusion  glide, 
Answering  the  jest,  the  song  on  every  side ; 
To  Naples  next — and  at  the  crowded  gate, 
Where  Grief  and  Fear  and  wild  Amazement 

wait, 
Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  brings  in  his  Sire, 
Vesuvius  blazing  like  a  World  on  fire  ! — 
Then,  at  a  sign  that  never  was  forgot, 
A  strain  breaks  forth  (who  hears  and  loves  it 

not?) 
From  lute  or  organ  !     'T  is  at  parting  given, 
That  in   their  slumbers   they  may  dream  of 

Heaven ; 
Young  voices  mingling  as  it  floats  along. 
In  Tuscan  air  or  Handel's  sacred  song ! 

And  She  inspires,  whose  beauty  shines  in  all ; 
So  soon  to  weave  a  daughter's  coronal, 
And   at  the   nuptial   rite   smile   through    her 

tears ; — 
So  soon  to  hover  round  her  full  of  fears. 
And  with  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 
In  child-birth — when  a  mother's  love  is  most 

alive. 
No,  't  is  not  here  that  Solitude  is  known, 
Through  the  wide  world  he  only  is  alone 
Who  lives  not  for  another.     Come  what  will, 
The  generous  man  has  his  companion  still ; 
The  cricket  on  his  hearth  ;  .he  buzzing  fly 
That  skims  his  roof,  or,  be  his  roof  the  sky. 
Still  with  its  note  of  gladness  passes  by: 
And,  in  an  iron  cage  condemn'd  to  dwell, 
Tfea  cage  that  stands  within  the  dungeon-cell, 


BUMAKT  LIFE.  &37 

H^  feeds  his  spider— happier  at  the  worst 
Than  he  at  large  who  in  himself  is  curst. 

O  thou  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind 
Streams  from  the  depth  of  ages  on  mankind, 
Streams  hke   the  day— who,  angel-like,  ba»« 

shed 
Thy  full  eflTulgeuce  on  the  hoary  head. 
Speaking  in  Cato's  venerable  voice, 
"  Look  up,  and  faint  not — faint   not,  bm  r6« 

joice  !"" 
From  thy  Elysium  guide  him.    Age  has  novf 
Stamp'd  with  its  signet  that  ingenious  brow  ; 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees. 
Trees  he  has  climb'd  so  oft,  he  sits  and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees ; 
Then   happiest,   youngest,  when  the   quoit   is 

flung, 
"When   side    by   side   the   archer's    bows  are 

strung ; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge  the  prize, 
Envying  no  more  the  young  their  energies 
Than  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise  ; 
His  a  delight  how  pure — without  alloy  ; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy  ! 

Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many  a  day ; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved,  restored, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feeling  of  enjoyment.     In  his  walks, 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops  and  talks, 
While  they  look   up!     Their  questions,  their 

replies, 


£38  HUMAN   LIFE. 

Fresh  as  the  welling  waters,  round  him  rise, 
Gladdening  his  spirit:  and,  his  theme  the  past, 
How  eloquent  he  is  !  His  thoughts  flow  fast, 
And,  while  his  heart  (oh  can  the  heart  grow  old  ? 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  World  are  told  !) 
Swells  in  his  voice,  he  knows  not  where  to  end  ; 
Like  one  discoursing  of  an  absent  friend. 

But  there  are  moments  which  he  calls  his  own, 
Then,  never  less  alone  than  when  alone, 
Those  that  he  loved  so  long  and  sees  no  more, 
Loved   and    still    loves — not   dead — but   gone 

before. 
He  gathers  round  him  ;  and  revives  at  will 
Scenes  in  his  life — that  breathe  enchantment 

still— 
That  come  not  now  at  dreary  i-ntervals" — 
But  where  a  light  as  from  the  Blessed  falls, 
A  light  such  guests  bring  ever — pure  and  holy- 
Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melancholy. 
—Ah  then  less  willing  (nor  the  choice  condemn) 
To  live  with  others  than  to  think  on  them  ! 

And  now  behold  him  up  the  hill  ascending, 
Memory  and  Hope  like  evening-stars  attending ; 
Sustain'd,  excited,  till  his  course  is  run, 
By  deeds  of  virtue  done  or  to  be  done. 
When  on  his  couch  he  sinks  at  length  to  rest, 
Those  by  his  counsel  saved,  his  power  redress'd, 
Those  by  the  World  shunn'd  ever  as  unblest. 
At  whom  the  rich  man's  dog  growls  from  the 

gate, 
But  whom  he  sought  out,  sitting  desolate, 


HUMAN  LIFE.  239 

Come  and  stand  round — tne  widow  with  her 

child, 
As  when  she  first  forgot  her  tears  and  smiled ! 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  see  not ;  but  he  sees, 
Sees  and  exults — Were  ever  dreams  Hke  these  ? 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  hear  not;  but  he  hears, 
And  earth  recede?,  and  Heaven  itself  appears  ! 
'T  is  past!  That  hand  we  grasp' d,  alas,  in  vain! 
Nor  shall  we  look  upon  his  face  again  ! 
But  to  his  closing  eyes,  for  all  were  there, 
Nothing  was  wanting;  and,  through  many  a  year, 
We  shall  remember  with  a  fond  delight 
The  words  so  precious  which  we  heard  to-night; 
His  parting,  though  awhile  our  sorrow  flows. 
Like  setting  suns  or  music  at  the  close  ! 

Then  was  the  drama  ended.    Not  till  then, 
•So  full  of  chance  and  change  the  lives  of  men, 
Could  we  pronounce  him  happy.     Then  secure 
From  pain,  from  grief,  from  all  that  we  endure, 
He  slept  in  peace — say  rather  soar'd  to  Heaven,, 
Upborne   from   Earth   by   Him  to  whom'tia 

given 
In  his  right  hand  to  hold  the  golden  key 
That  opes  the  portals  of  Eternity. 
—When  by  a  good  man's  grave  I  muse  alone, 
Methinks  an  angel  sits  upon  the  stone  ; 
Like  those  of  old,  on  that  thrice-hallow'd  night. 
Who  sate  and   watch' d  in  raiment   heavenly- 
bright  ; 
And,  with  a  voice  inspiring  joy,  not  fear, 
Says,  pointing  upward,  that  he  is  not  here, 
That  he  is  risen  ! 


240  HUMAN   LIFE. 

But  the  day  is  spent , 
And  stars  are  kindling  in  the  firmament, 
To  us  how  silent — though  Uke  ours  perchanca 
Busy  and  full  of  life  and  circumstance ; 
Where  some  the  paths  of  Weilih  and  Powei 

pursue, 
Of  Pleasure  some,  of  Happiness  a  few  ; 
And,  as  the  sun  goes  round — a  sun  not  ours — 
While  from  her  lap  another  Nature  showers 
Gifts  of  her  own,  some  from  the  crowd  retire, 
Think  on  themselves,  within,  without  inquire  ; 
At  distance  dwell  on  all  that  passes  there, 
All  that  their  world  reveals  of  good  and  fair ; 
And,  as  they  wan-der,  picturing  things,  like  me, 
Not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  ought  to  be. 
Trace  out  the  Journey  through  their  little  Day, 
And  fondly  dream  an  idle  hour  away. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND 


Villula, et  pauper  agelle, 

Meiibi,  ei  hos  una  meciun,  et  quos  semper  amavi, 
Commendo. 


PREFACE. 

EvEKY  reader  turns  with  pleasure  to  those 
passages  of  Horace,  and  Pope,  and  Boileau, 
which  describe  how  they  lived  and  where  they 
dwelt;  and  which,  being  interspersed  among 
their  satirical  writings,  derive  a  secret  and  irre- 
sistible grace  from  the  contrast,  and  are  admira- 
ble examples  of  what  in  Painting  is  termed  re- 
pose. 

We  have  admittance  to  Horace  at  all  hours. 
We  enjoy  the  company  and  convefsation  at  his 
table;  and  his  suppers,  like  Plato's,  "  non 
solum  in  prajsentia,  sedetiam  postero  die  jucun- 
dce  sunt."  But  when  we  look  round  as  we  sit 
there,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  Sabine  farm,  and 
not  in  a  Roman  villa.  His  windows  have  every 
charm  of  prospect ;  but  his  furniture  might  have 
descended  from  Cincinnatus;  and  gems,  and  pic- 
tures, and  old  marbles,  are  mentioned  by  him 
more  than  once  with  a  seeming  indifference. 

His  English  Imitator  thought  and  felt,  perhaps, 

more  correctly  on  the  subject;  and  embellished 
^  16    •"       '  241 


242  AN  EPiSTLE  TO  A  FRIEND. 

his  garden  and  grotto  with  great  industry  and 
success.  But  to  these  alone  he  solicits  our  no- 
tice. On  the  ornaments  of  his  house  he  is  silent; 
and  he  appears  to  have  reserved  all  the  minuter 
touches  of  his  pencil  for  the  library,  the  chapel, 
Eind  the  banqueting-room  of  Timon.  "  Le  sa- 
voir  de  notre  siecle,"  says  Rousseau,  "  tend 
beaucoup  plus  H  detruire  qu'i  edifier.  On  cen- 
sure d'un  ton  de  maitre  ;  pour  proposer,  il  en 
faut  prendre  un  autre." 

It  is  the  design  of  this  Epistle  to  illustrate  the 
virtue  of  True  Taste  ;  and  to  show  how  little 
she  requires  to  secure,  not  only  the  comforts, 
but  even  the  elegancies  of  life.  True  Taste  is 
an  excellent  Economist.  She  confines  her  choice 
to  few  objects,  and  delights  in  producing  great 
effects  by  small  means :  while  False  Taste  is 
for  ever  sighing  after  the  new  and  the  rare  ;  and 
reminds  us,  in  her  works,  of  the  Scholar  of 
Apelles,  who,  not  being  able  to  paint  his  Helen 
beautiful,  determined  to  make  her  fine. 


ARGUMENT. 
A.n  invitation— The  approach  to  a  Villa  described--Ita 
situation— Us  few  apartments— furnished   with   casta 
from  the  Antique,  etc.— The  dining-room— the  library 
— A  cold-bath— A  winter-walk;— A  summer- walk— Tho 
invitation  renewed— Conclusion 
■» — 
When,   with  a   Reaumur's  skill,  thy  curioua 
mind 


AK   EPISTLE  TO  A  FR/END.  243 

Hasclass'd  the  insect-tribes  of  human  kind, 
Each  with  its  busy  hum,  or  gilded  wing, 
Its  subtle  net-work,  or  its  venom'd  sting  ; 
Let  me,  to  claim  a  few  unvalued  hcturs. 
Point  out  the  green  lane  rough  with  fern  and 

flowers ; 
The  shelter' d  gate  that  opens  to  my  field, 
And  the  white  front  tlirough  mingling  elms  re- 
veal'd- 
In  vain,  alas,  a  village-friend  invites 
To  simple  comforts,  and  domestic  rites, 
When  the  gay  months  of  Carnival  resume 
Their  annual  round  of  glitter  and  perfume  ; 
When  London  hails  thee  in  its  splendid  mart, 
Its  hives  of  sweets,  and  cabinets  of  art ; 
And,  lo,  majestic  as  thy  manly  song. 
Flows  the  full  tide  of  human  life  along. 

Still  must  my  partial  pencil  love  to  dwell 
On  the  home-prospects  of  my  hermit-cell ; 
The  mossy  pales  that  skirt  the  orchard-green, 
Here   hid  by  shrub -wood,  there   by  gUmpsea 

seen; 
And  the  brown  pathway,  that,   with  careless 

flow. 
Sinks,  and  is  lost  among  the  trees  below. 
-Still  must  it  trace  (the  flattering  tints  forgive) 
Each  fleeting  charm  that  bids  the  landscape  live. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass 
Browsing  the  hedge  by  fits  the  pannier'd  ass; 
The  idling  shepherd-boy,  with  rude  delight, 
Whistling  his  dog  to  mark  the  pebble's  flight, 
And  in  her  kerchief  blue  the  ccttage-maid, 


244  AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  TKIZ^D. 

With  brimming  pitcher  from  the  shadowy  glad«t 
Far  to  the  south  a  mountain- vale  retires, 
Rich  in  itsgi-oves,  and  glen?,  and  village-spires: 
Its  upland-lawns,  and  cliffs  with  foliage  hung> 
Its  wizard-stream,  nornameless  nor  unsung: 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day, 
V/hat  scenes  of  glory  burst,  and  melt  away  ! 

When  April-verdure  springs  in  Grosvenor- 
square, 
And  the  furr'd  Beauty  comes  to  winter  there, 
She  bids  old  N"ature  mar  the  plan  no  more ; 
Yet  still  the  seasons  circle  as  before. 
Ah,  still  as  soon  the  young  Aurora  plays, 
Though  moons  and  flambeaux  trail  their  broai- 

est  blaze. 
As  soon  the  sky-lark  pours  his  matin-song, 
Though  evening  lingers  at  the  mask  so  long. 

There  let  her  strike  with  momentary  ray, 
As  tapers  shine  their  little  lives  away  ; 
There  let  her  practise  from  herself  to  steal, 
And  look  the  happiness  she  does  not  feel ; 
The  ready  smile  and  hidden  blush  employ 
\t  Faro-routs  that  dazzle  to  destroy  ; 
Fan  with  affected  ease  the  essenced  air. 
And  lisp  of  fashions  with  unmeaning  stare. 
Be  thine  to  meditate  an  humbler  flight, 
When  morning  fills  the  fields  with  ro>y  light ; 
Be  thine  to  blend,  nor  thine  a  vulgar  aim, 
Repose  with  dignity,  with  quiet  fame. 

Here  no  state-chambers  in  long  line  unfold. 
Bright  with  broad  mirrors,  rough  with  fretted 
gold ; 


AH    EnSTLE   TO    A    FFaEND.  245 

STet  modest  ornament,  with  use  combined, 

Attracts  the  eye  to  exercise  the  mind. 

Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home 

requires. 
Who  leads  a  life  of  satisfied  desires. 

What  though  no  marble  breathes,  no  canvass 
glows, 
From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows  ! 
Be  mine  to  bless  the  more  mechanic  skill. 
That  stamps,  renews,  and  multiplies  at  will; 
And  cheaply  circulates,  through  distant  climes, 
The  fairest  relics  of  the  purest  times. 
Here  from  the  mould  to  conscious  being  start 
Those  finer  forms,  the  miracles  of  art ; 
Here  chosen  gems,  imprest  on  sulphur,  shine, 
That  slept  for  ages  in  a  second  mine  ; 
And  here  the  faithful  graver  dares  to  trace 
A  Michael's  grandeur,  and  a  Rapiiael's  grace! 
Thy    Gallery,    Florence,    gilds    my    humble 

walls, 
And  my  low  roof  the  Vatican  recalls  I 

Soon  as  the  morning-dream  my  pillow  flies, 
To  waking  sense  what  brighter  visions  rise  ! 
O  mark !  again  the  courses  of  the  Sun, 
At  Guido's  call,  their  round  of  glory  run! 
Again  the  rosy  Hours  resume  their  flight, 
Obscured  and  lost  in  floods  of  golden  light ! 

But  could  thine  erring  friend  ?o  long  forgei 
CSweet  source  of  pensive  joy  and  fond  regret) 
That  here  its  warmest  hues  the  pencil  flings, 
Lo  !  here  the  lost  restores,  the  absent  brings; 
And  s'ii'  *-he  Few  best  loved  and  most  revered 


ZiG  AN    EPISTLK    VO    A    fKIEJtD. 

Rise  round  the  board  their  soint-l  smile  endcarM! 
Selected    shelves   shall   claim   thy   studioua 

hours ; 
There  shall  thy  ranging  mind  be  fed  on  flowers ! 
1'here,   while  the  shaded   lamp's  mild   lustre 

streams, 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspirinor  dreams 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there, 
Pause,    and    his   features   with    his    thoughts 

compare. 
— Ah,  most  that  Art  my  grateful  rapture  calls. 
Which  breathes  a  soul  into  the  silent  walls  ; 
Which  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue, 
All  on  whose  words  departed  nations  hung  ; 
Still  prompt  to  charm  with  many  a  converse 

sweet ; 
Guides  in  the  world,  companions  in  retreat  ! 
Though  my  thatch'd  bath  no  rich   Mosiac 

knows, 
A  limped  stream  with  unfelt  current  flows. 
Emblem  of  Life  !  which,  still  as  we  survey. 
Seems  motionless,  yet  ever  glides  away  ! 
The  shadowy  walls  record,  with  Attic  art, 
The  strength  and  beauty  that  its  waves  impart. 
Here  Thetis,  bending,  v/ith  a  mother's  fears 
Dips  her  dear  boy,  whose  pride  restrains  hia 

tears. 
There,    Venus,    rising,    shrinks    with    sweet 

surprise, 
As  her  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise  . 
Far  from  the  joyless  glan,  the  maddening 

strife, 


AN   EPISTLE  TO   A   FEIEND.  247 

And  all  the  dull  impertinence  of  life, 

These  eye-lids  open  to  the  rising  ray, 

And  close,  when  nature  bids,  at  close  of  day. 

Here,    at   the   dawn,    the   kindling    landscape 

glows ; 
There  noon-day  levees  call  from  faint  repose. 
Hero  the  flush' d  wave  flings  back  the  parting 

light ; 
There  glimmering  lamps  anticipate  the  night. 
"When  from    his   classic   dreams   the   student 

steals. 
Amid  the  buzz  of  crowds,  the  whirl  of  wheels, 
To  muse  unnoticed — while  around  him  press 
The  meteor-forms  of  equipage  and  dress  ; 
Alone,  in  wonder  lost,  he  seems  to  stand 
A  very  stranger  in  his  native  land  ! 
And  (though  perchance  of  current  coin  possest, 
And  modern  phrase  by  living  lips  esprest) 
Like  those  blest  Youths,  forgive  the  fabling 

page, 
Whose  blameless  lives  deceived  a  twilight  age. 
Spent  in  sweet  slumbers  ;  till  the  miner's  spade 
Unclosed  the  cavern,  and  the  morning  play'd. 
Ah !    what   their  strange  supplies,  their  wild 

delight ! 
Ne  w  arts  of  life,  new  manners  meet  their  sight ! 
In  a  new  world  they  wake  as  from  the  dead  ; 
Yet  doubt  the  trance  dissolved,  the  vision  fled  ! 

O  come,  and,  rich  in  intellectual  wealth, 
ijlend  thought  with  exercise,  with  knowledge 

health  ! 
Long,  in  this  shelter'd  scene  of  letter'd  tali, 


248  AN   EPISTLE  TO   A  FRIEIfD. 

With  sobei  stop  repeat  the  pensive  walk  ; 
N  jr  scorn,  when  gruver  triflings  fail  to  pleas®, 
The  cheap  amusements  of  a  mind  at  ease; 
Here  every  care  in  sweet  oblivion  cast, 
And  many  an  idle  hour — not  idly  pass'd. 

No  tuneful  echoes,  ambush'd  at  my  gate, 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 
Vain  of  its  various  page,  no  Album  breathes 
The  sigh  that  Friendship  or  the  Muse  bequeaths. 
Yet  some  good  Genii  o'er  my  hearth  preside, 
Oft  the  far  friend,  with  secret  spell,  to  guide  ; 
And  there  I  trace,  when  the  gray  evening  lours, 
A  silent  chronicle  of  happier  hours  I 

"When  Christmas  revels  in  a  world  of  snow, 
And  bids  her  berries  blush,  her  carols  flow  ; 
His  spangling  shower  when  Frost  the  wizard 

flings  ; 
Or,  borne  in  ether  blue,  on  viewless  wings, 
O'er  the  white  pane  his  silvery  foliage  weaves, 
And  gems  with  icicles  the  sheltering  eves ; 
— Thy  muffled  friend  his  nectarine- wall  pursues, 
What  time  the  sun  the  yellow  crocus  wooes. 
Screened  from  the  arrowy  North ;    and  duly 

hies. 
To  meet  the  morning-rumour  as  it  flies  ; 
To   range   the  nmrmuring   market-place,  and 

view 
The  motley  groups  that  faithful  Teniers  drew. 
When  Spring  bursts  forth  in  blossoms  through 

the  vale. 
And  her  wild  music  triumphs  on  the  gale, 
Oft  with  my  book  I  muse  from  stile  to  stile  ; 


AN    EPISTLE   TC    A   FRIEND.  249 

Oft  in  my  porch  the  listless  noon  beguile, 
Framing  loose  numbers,  till  declining  day- 
Through  the  green  trellis  shoots  a  crimson  ray  ; 
Till  the  West-wind  leads  on  the  twilight  hours, 
And  shakes  the  fragrant  bells  of  closing  flowers. 

Nor  boast,  0  Choisy  !  seat  of  soft  delight, 
The  secret  charm  of  thy  voluptuous  night. 
Vain  is  the  blaze  of  wealth,  the  pomp  of  power  ! 
Lo,  here,  attendant  on  the  shadowy  hour, 
Thy  closet-supper,  served  by  hands  unseen, 
Sheds,  Uke  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene, 
To  hail  our  coming.     Not  a  step  profane 
Dares,  with  rude  sound,   the  cheerful  rite  re- 
strain ; 
And,  while  the  frugal  banquet  glows  reveal'd, 
Pure  and  unbought, — the  natives  of  my  field  ; 
While  blushing  fruits  through  scatter'd  leaves 

invite. 
Still  clad  in  bloom,  and  veil'd  in  azure  light! 
With  wine,  as  rich  in  years  as  Horace  sings, 
With  water,  clear  as  his  own  fountain  flings. 
The  shifting  side-board  plays  its  humbler  part, 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Lorioi's  art. 

Thus,  in  this  calm  recess,  so  richly  fraught 
With  mental  light,  and  luxury  of  thought, 
My  life  steals  on  ;  (0  could  it  blend  with  thine  !) 
Careless  my  course,  yet  not  without  design. 
So  through  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives 

glide. 
The  light  raft  dropping  with  the  silent  tide; 
So,  till  the  laughing  scenes  are  lost  in  night, 
The  bus}-  people  wing  their  various  fli/jbt, 


250  AN    EPISTLE   TO    A    Fi?.IEND. 

Culling    unnumber'd    sweets    from    nameless 

flowers, 
That  scent  the  vineyard  in  its  purple  hours. 

Rise,  ere  the  watch-relieving  clarions  play, 
Caught  through  St.  James's  groves  a  blush  cl 

day  ; 
Ere  its  full  voice  the  choral  anthem  flings 
Through  trophied  tombs  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Haste  to  the  tranquil  shade  of  learned  ease. 
Though  skiil'd  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please  ; 
Though    each    gay    scene    be    search' d   with 

anxious  eye. 
Nor  thy  shut  door  be  pass'd  without  a  sigh. 

If,  when  this  roof  shall  know  thy  friend  no  more, 
Some,  form'd  like  thee,  should  once,  like  thee, 

explore  ; 
Invoke  the  lares  of  this  loved  retreat, 
And  his  lone  walks  imprint  with  pilgrim-feet ; 
Then  be  it  said,  (as,  vain  of  better  days, 
Some  grey  domestic  prompts  the  partial  praise 
"  Unknown  he  lived,  unenvied,  not  unblest; 
Reason  his  guide,  and  Happiness  his  guest. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  his  moral  page, 
We  trace  the  manners  of  a  purer  age. 
His  soul,  with  thirst  of  genuine  glory  fraught, 
Scorn'd  the 'false  lustre  of  licentious  thought. 
"—One  fair  asylum  from  the  wo.ld  he  knew, 
One  chosen  seat,  that  charms  with  various  view! 
Who  boasts  of  more  (believe  the  serious  strain 
Sighs  for  a  home,  and  sighs,  alas  !  in  vain. 
Through  each  he  roves  the  tenant  of  a  day, 
And,  with  the  swallow,  wing"  the  yevir  avsray  !" 


JACQUELINE. 


I. 

'T  WAS  Autumn  ;  through  Provence  had  ceased 

The  vintage,  and  the  vintage-feast. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  hill, 

The  moon  was  up,  and  all  was  still, 

And  from  the  convent's  neighbouring  tower 

The  clock  had  toU'd  the  midnight-hour, 

When  Jacqueline  came  forth  alone, 

Her  kerchief  o'er  her  tresses  thrown  : 

A  guilty  thing  and  full  of  fears, 

Yet  ah,  how  lovely  in  her  tears! 

She  starts,  and  what  has  caught  her  eye  ? 

What — but  her  shadow  gliding  by  ? 

She  stops,  she  pants  ;  with  lips  apart 

She  listens— to  her  beating  heart ! 

Then,  through  the  scanty  orchard  stealing, 

The  clustering  boughs  her  track  concealing, 

She  flies,  nor  casts  a  thought  behind. 

But  gives  her  terrors  to  the  wind ; 

Flies  from  her  horns,  the  humble  sphere 

Of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  here. 

Her  father's  house  of  mountain-stone, 

And  by  a  mountain-vine  o'ergrown. 

At  such  ai;  hour  in  such  a  night, 

251 


E52  JACQVJELI.NE. 

So  calm,  so  clear,  so  heavenly  bright, 
Who  would  have  seen,  and  not  confewi'd 
It  Jooked  as  all  within  were  blest  ? 
What  will  not  woman,  when  she  loves  f 
Yet  lost,  alas,  who  can  restore  her  ?- 
She  lifts  the  latch,  the  wicket  moves  , 
And  now  the  world  is  all  before  her. 

Up  rose  St.  Pierre,  when  morning  shone, 
And  Jacqueline,  his  child,  was  gone  ! 
Oh  what  the  madd'ning  thought  that  came? 
Dishonour  coupled  with  his  name  I 
By  Conde  at  Rocroy  he  stood  ; 
By  Turenne,  when  the  Rhine  ran  blood; 
Two  banners  of  Castile  he  gave 
Aloft  in  Notre  Dame  to  wave  ; 
Nor  did  thy  Cross,  St.  Louis,  rest 
Upon  a  purer,  nobler  breast. 
He  slung  his  old  sword  by  his  side. 
And  snatch'd  his  staff  and  rush'd  to  save ; 
Then  sunk — and  on  his  threshold  cried, 
"  Oh  lay  me  in  my  grave  ! 
—Constance  !  Claudine  !  where  were  ye  thent 
But  stand  not  there.     Away  !  away  I 
Thou,  Frederic,  by  thy  father  stay. 
Though  old,  and  now  forgot  of  men, 
Both  must  not  leave  him  in  a  day." 
Then,  and  he  shook  his  huary  head, 
•'  Unhappy  in  thy  youth  !"  he  said. 
*'  Call  as  thou  wilt,  thou  call'st  in  vain  ; 
No  voice  sends  back  thy  name  again. 
To  mourn  is  all  thou  hast  to  do  ; 
Thy  play-mate  lost,  and  teacher  too." 


JACQUELINE.  253 

And  v,ho  but  she  could  soothe  the  boy, 
Or  turn  his  tears  to  tears  of  joy  ? 
Long  had  she  kiss'd  him  as  he  slept, 
Long  o'er  his  pillow  hung  and  wept; 
And,  as  she  pass'd  her  father's  door, 
She  stood  as  she  would  stir  no  more. 
But  she  is  gone,  anj  gone  for  ever ! 
No,  never  shall  they  clasp  her — never  ! 
They  sit  and  listen  to  their  fears  ; 
And  ho,  who  through  the  breach  had  led 
Over  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Shakes  if  a  cricket's  cry  he  hears  I 

Oh  !  she  was  good  as  she  was  fair  ; 
None — none  on  earth  above  her  I 
As  pure  in  thought  as  angels  are, 
To  know  her  was  to  love  her. 
When  little,  and  her  eyes,  her  voice. 
Her  every  gesture  said  "rejoice," 
Hor  coming  was  a  gladness  ; 
And,  as  she  grew,  her  modest  grace, 
Her  down-cast  look  'twas  heaven  to  traca, 
When,  shading  with  her  hand  her  face 
She  half  inclined  to  sadness. 
Her  voice,  whate'er  she  said,  enchanted. 
Like  music  to  the  heart  it  went. 
And  her  dark  eyes— how  eloquent  ! 
Ask  what  they  wov  Id,  't  was  granted. 
Her  father  loved  her  as  his  fame  ; 
—And  Bayard's  self  had  done  the  same! 

Soon  as  the  sun  the  glittering  pane 
On  the  red  floor  in  diamonds  threw, 
His  songs  she  sung  and  sang  again. 


?54  JACQUELINE. 

Tin  the  last  light  withdrew. 

Every  day,  and  all  day  long. 

He  mused  or  sluniber'd  to  a  soi  y, 

But  she  is  dead  to  him,  to  all! 

Her  lute  hangs  silent  on  the  wa'l ; 

And  on  the  stairs,  and  at  the  door 

Her  fairy-step  is  heard  no  more  ! 

At  every  meal  an  empty  chair 

Tells  him  that  she  is  not  there  ; 

8he,  who  would  lead  him  where  he  went, 

Charm  with  her  converse  while  he  leant ; 

Or,  hovering,  every  wish  prevent ; 

At  eve  light  up  the  chimney-nook, 

Lay  there  his  glass  within  his  book  ; 

And  that  small  chest  of  curious  mould, 

iQueen  Mab's,  perchance,  in  days  of  old,) 

Tusk  of  elephant  and  gold  ; 

Which,  when  a  tale  is  long,  dispenses 

Its  fragrant  dust  to  drowsy  senses. 

In  her  whomourn'd  not,  when  they  miss'd  hef 

The  old  a  child,  the  young  a  sister  ? 

No  more  the  orphan  runs  to  take 

From  her  loved  hand  the  barley-cake. 

No  more  the  matron  in  the  school 

Expects  her  in  the  hour  of  rule, 

To  sit  amid  the  elfin  brood. 

Praising  the  busy  and  the  good. 

The  widow  trims  her  hearth  in  vain, 

She  comes  not — nor  will  come  again ! 

Not  now,  his  little  lesson  done, 

With  Frederic  blowing  bubbles  in  the  sun; 

Nor  spinning  by  the  fountain-side, 


JACQUELIXE.  255 

(Some  story  of  the  days  of  old, 

Barbe  Bleue  or  Chaperon  Rouge  half-lold 

To  him  who  would  not  be  denied ;) 

Not  now,  to  while  an  hour  away, 

Gone  to  the  falls  in  Valombre,  • 

Where  't  is  night  at  noon  of  day  ; 

Nor  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood, 

To  all  but  her  a  solitude, 

Where  once  a  wild  deer,  wild  no  more, 

Her  chaplet  on  his  antlers  wore, 

And  at  her  bidding  stood. 

II. 

The  day  was  in  the  golden  west ; 

And,  curtain'd  close  by  leaf  and  flower, 

The  doves  had  cooed  themselves  to  rest 

In  Jacqueline's  deserted  bower  ; 

The  doves — that  still  would  at  her  casemeat 

peck. 
And  in  her  walks  had  ever  flutter'd  round 
With  purple  feet  and  shining  neck, 
True  as  the  echo  to  the  sound. 
That  casement,  underneath  the  trees, 
Half  open  to  the  western  breeze, 
Look'd  down,  enchanting  Garonnelle, 
Thy  wild  and  mulberry-shaded  dell. 
Round  which  the  Alps  of  Peidmont  rose, 
The  blush  of  sun-set  on  their  snows : 
While,  blithe  as  lark  on  summer-morn, 
When  green  and  yellow  waves  the  corn, 
When  harebells  blow  ir  every  grove, 


25G  JACQUELINE 

And  f brushes  sing  "  I  love  !  I  love!*** 
Within  (so  soon  the  early  rain 
Scatters,  and  'tis  fair  again; 
Though  many  a  drop  may  yet  be  seen 
To  tell  us  where  a  cloud  has  been) 
Within  lay  Frederic,  o'er  and  o'er 
Building  castles  on  the  floor, 
And  feigning,  as  they  grew  in  size, 
New  troubles  and  new  dangers  ; 
With  dimpled  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes, 
i.\s  he  and  Fear  were  strangers. 

St.  Pierre  sat  by,  nor  saw  nor  smiled. 
His  eyes  were  on  his  loved  Montaigne ; 
But  every  leaf  was  turn'd  in  vain. 
Then  in  that  hour  remorse  he  felt, 
And  his  heart  told  him  he  had  dealt 
Unkindly  with  his  child. 
A  father  may  awhile  refuse  ; 
Yet  who  can  for  another  choose  ? 
When  her  young  blushes  had  reveal'd 
The  secret  from  herself  conceal'd, 
Why  promise  what  her  tears  denied, 
That  she  should  be  De  Courcy's  bride  f 
— VVouldst  thou,  presumptuous  as  thoucrt^, 
O'er  Nature  play  the  tyrant's  part. 
And  with  the  hand  compel  the  heart  ? 
Oh  rather,  rather  hope  to  bind 
The  ocean-wave,  the  mountain-wind  ; 
Or  fix  thy  foot  upon  the  ground 

*  Canlando  "  lo  amo  !  lo  amo  \—Ta9ao. 


JACQUELINE.  257 

To  Stop  the  planet  roiling  round. 

The  hght  was  on  his  face  ;  and  there 
You  might  have  seen  the  passions  driven— 
Resentme?.t,  Pity,  Hope,  Despair — 
Like  clouds  across  the  face  of  Heaven. 
Now  he  sigh'd  heavily  ;  and  now, 
His  hand  withdrawing  from  his  brow, 
He  shut  the  volume  with  a  frown, 
To  walk  his  troubled  spirit  down  : 
— When  (faithful  as  that  dog  of  yore* 
Who  wagg'd  his  tail  and  could  no  more) 
Manchon,  who  long  had  snuff'd  the  ground, 
And  sought  and  sought,  but  never  found, 
Leapt  up  and  to  the  casement  flew. 
And  look'd  and  bark'd  and  vanish'd  through* 
*'  'T  is  Jacqueline  !  'T  is  Jacqueline  '" 
Her  little  brother  laughing  cried. 
"  I  know  her  by  her  kirtle  green, 
She  comes  along  the  mountain-side  ; 
Now  turning  by  the  traveller's  seat, — 
Now  resting  in  the  hermit's  cave, — 
Now  kneeling,  where  the  pathways  meet. 
To  the  cross  on  the  stranger's  grave. 
And  by  the  soldier's  cloak,  I  know 
(There,  there  along  the  ridge  they  go) 
D'Arcy,  so  gentle  and  so  brave  ! 
Lookup — why  will  you  not  ?"  he  crie« 
His  rosy  hands  before  his  eyes ; 
For  on  that  iticense-breathing  eve 
The  sun  shone  out,  as  loth  to  leave. 

♦  Argus. 
17 


858  JACQUELINE, 

"  Sec  to  the  rugged  rock  she  clinga  f 
She  calls,  she  taints,  and  D'Arcy  spring! 
D'Arcy  £o  dear  to  us,  to  all ; 
Who,  for  you  told  me  on  your  knee, 
When  in  the  fight  he  saw  you  fall, 
Saved  you  for  Jacqueline  and  me  !" 

And  true  it  was  !  And  true  the  tale  ' 
When  did  she  sue  and  not  prevail  ? 
Five  years  before — it  was  the  night 
That  on  the  village-green  they  parted, 
The  lilied  banners  streaming  bright 
O'er  maids  and  mothers  broken-hearted ; 
The  drum — it  drown'd  the  last  adieu, 
When  D'Arcy  from  the  crowd  she  drew. 
"  One  charge  I  have,  and  one  alone, 
Nor  that  refuse  to  take. 
My  father — if  not  for  his  own, 
Oh  for  his  daughter's  sake  !" 
Inly  he  vow'd — "  'twas  all  he  could  !'* 
And  went  and  seal'd  it  with  his  blood. 

Nor  can  ye  wonder.     When  a  child. 
And  in  her  playfulness  she  smiled, 
Up  many  a  ladder-path*  he  guided 
Where  meteor-like  the  chamois  glided. 
Through  many  a  misty  grove. 
They  loved — but  under  Friendship's  namo 
And  Reason,  Virtue  fann'd  the  flame  ; 
Till  in  their  houses  Discord  came, 
And  'twas  a  crime  to  love. 
Then  what  was  Jacqueline  to  do  ? 

♦Called  in  the  language  of  ihe  country  pas  de  V  Ech*li4 


JACQ  CELINE.  259 

Her  father's  angry  hours  she  knew, 
And  when  to  soothe,  nnd  when  persuade; 
But  now  her  path  De  Courcy  cross' d, 
Led  by  his  falcon  through  the  glade- 
He  turn'd,  beheld,  admired  the  maid; 
And  all  her  little  arts  were  lost ! 
De  Courcy,  lord  of  Atgentiere  ! 
Thy  poverty,  thy  pride,  St,  Pierre, 
Thy  thirst  for  vengeance  sought  the  snare 
The  day  was  named,  the  guests  invited; 
The  bridegroom,  at  the  gate,  alighted; 
When  up  the  windings  of  the  dell 
A  pastoral  pipe  was  heard  to  swell, 
And  lo,  an  humble  Peidmontese, 
Whose  music  might  a  lady  please, 
This  message  through  the  lattice  bore 
(She  listen'd,  and  her  trembling  frame 
Told  her  at  once  from  whom  it  came^ 
•'  Oh  let  us  fly — to  part  no  more!" 

III. 
That  morn  ('twas  in  Ste  Julienne's  cell, 
As  at  Ste  Julienne's  sacred  well 
Their  dream  of  love  began). 
That  morn,  ere  many  a  star  was  set, 
Their  hands  had  on  the  altar  met 
Before  the  holy  man. 
—And  now  the  village  gleams  at  last ; 
The  woods,  the  golden  meadows  pass'd. 
Where,  when  Toulouse,  thy  splendour  shon* 
The  Troubadour  would  journey  on 
Transported— or,  from  grove  to  grove, 


2^0  JACQUELIVE. 

Framing  some  roundelay  of  love. 

Wander  till  the  day  was  gone. 

"  All  will  be  well,  my  Jacqueline  ' 

Oh  tremble  not — but  trust  in  m<»-. 

The  good  are  better  made  by  ill, 

As  odours  crush'd  are  sweeter  still; 

And  gloomy  as  thy  past  has  been, 

Bright  shall  thy  future  be  !" 

So  saying,  through  the  fragrant  shade 

Gently  along  he  led  the  maid. 

While  Manchon  round  and  round  her  play'd; 

And,  as  that  silent  glen  they  leave, 

Where  by  the  spring  the  pitchers  stand, 

Where  glow-worms  light  their  lamps  at  eve, 

And  fairies  dance — in  fairy-land, 

^When  Lubin  calls,  and  Blanche  steals  round, 

Her  finger  on  her  lip,  to  see  ; 

And  many  an  acorn-cup  is  found 

Under  the  greenwood  tree) 

From  every  cot  above,  below, 

They  gather  as  they  go — 

Sabot,  and  coif,  and  collerette, 

The  housewife's  prayer,  the  grandam'sb'essing! 

Girls  that  adjust  their  locks  of  jet, 

And  look  and  look  and  linger  yet, 

The  lovely  bride  caressing  ; 

Babes  that  had  learnt  to  lisp  her  name, 

And  heroes  he  had  led  to  fame. 

But  what  felt  D'Arcy,  when  at  length 
Her  father's  gate  was  open  flung  ? 
Ah,  then  he  found  a  giant's  strength; 
For  round  him,  as  for  life  she  clung  ! 


JACQUELINE.  26t 

And  when,  her  fit  of  weeping  o'er, 
Onward  they  moved  a  little  space, 
And  saw  an  old  man  sitting  at  the  door, 
Saw  his  wan  cheek,  and  sunken  eye 
That  seem'd  to  gaze  on  vacancy. 
Then,  at  the  sight  ot"  that  beloved  face. 
At  once  to  fall  upon  his  neck  she  flew  ; 
But — not  encouraged — back  she  drew, 
And  trembling  stood  in  dread  suspense, 
Her  tears  her  only  eloquence  ! 
All,  all — the  while — an  awful  distance  keeping 
Save  D'Arcy,  who  nor  speaks  nor  stirs  ; 
And  one,  his  little  hand  in  hers, 
Who  weeps  to  see  his  sister  weeping. 
Then  Jacqueline  the  silence  broke. 
She  clasp'd  her  father's  knees  and  spoke. 
Her  brother  kneeling  too  ; 
While  D'Arcy  as  before  look'd  on. 
Though  from  his  manly  cheek  was  gone 
Its  natural  hue. 

"  His  praises  from  your  lips  I  heard, 
Till  my  fond  heart  was  won  ; 
And,  if  in  aught  his  Sire  has  err'd, 
Oh  turn  not  from  the  Son ! — 
She,  whom  in  joy,  in  grief  you  nursed; 
Who  climb'd  and  call'd  you  father  first, 
By  that  dear  name  conjures — 
On  her  you  thought — but  to  be  kind  1 
When  look'd  you  up,  but  you  inclined  ? 
These  things,  for  ever  in  her  mind. 
Oh  are  they  gone  from  yours  ? 
Two  kneeling  at  your  feet  behold  • 


262  JACQUELINE. 

One — one  how  young ; — nor  yet  the  other  old. 

Oh  spurn  them  not— nor  look  so  cold — 

If  Jacqueline  be  cast  away, 

Her  bridal  be  her  dying  day. 

Well,  well  might  she  believe  in  you  !— 

She  listen'd,  and  she  found  it  true." 

Ha  shook  his  aged  locks  of  snow ; 
And  twice  he  turn'd,  and  rose  to  go. 
She  hung ;  and  was  St.  Pierre  to  blame, 
If  tears  and  smiles  together  came  ? 
"  Oh  no — begone  !  I'll  hear  no  more." 
But  as  he  spoke  his  voice  relented. 
*'  That  very  look  thy  mother  wore 
When  she  implored,  and  old  Le  Roc  consented; 
True,  I  have  done  as  well  as  suffer'd  wrong. 
Yet  once  I  loved  him  as  my  own  ! 
—Nor  can'st  thou,    D'Arcy,  feel  resentment 

long; 
For  she  herself  shall  plead,  and  I  atone. 
Henceforth,"  he  paused  awhile,  unmann'd, 
For  D'Arcy's  tears  bedew'd  his  hand  ; 
"  Let  each  meet  each  as  friend  to  friend, 
All  things  by  all  forgot,  forgiven. 
And  that  dear  Saint — may  she  once  more  de- 
scend 
To  make  our  home  a  heaven  ! — 
But  now,  in  my  hands,  your's  with  her's  unitei, 
A  father's  blessing  on  your  heads  alight .' 

Nor  let  the  least  be  sent  away. 

All  hearts  shall  sing  '  Adieu  to  sorrow  !' 

St.  Pierre  has  foimd  his  child  to-day ; 

And  old  and  young  shall  dance  to-morrow.  ' 


JACQUELIWE  263 

Had  Louis*  then  before  the  gate  (lismou::vted, 
Lost  in  the  chase  at  set  of  sun ; 
Like  Henry,  when  he  heard  recountedt 
The  generous  deeds  himself  had  done, 
(That  night  the  miller's  maid  Colette 
Sung,  while  he  supp'd  her  chansonnette) 
Then — when  St.  Pierre  address'd  his  viliage- 

train, 
Then  had  the  monarch  with  a  sigh  confess'd, 
A  joy  by  him  unsought  and  unpossess'd, 
—Without  it  what  are  all  the  rest  ? — 
To  love  and  to  be  loved  again. 

♦Louis  the  Fourteenth. 

t  Alluding  to  a  popular  story  related  of  Henry  the 
Fourth  of  France  ;  similar  Lo  ourg  uf"  The  Eirg  and  Mil 
«« t{  M«aofielJ." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  SAILOR, 


The  Sailor  sighs  as  sinks  his  native  shore, 
As  all  its  lessening  turrets  bluely  fade  ; 
He  climbs  the  mast  to  feed  his  eye  once  more, 
And  busy  Fancy  fondly  lends  her  aid. 

Ah  !  now  each  dear,  domestic  scene  he  knew, 
Recall'd  and  cherish'd  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Charms  with  the  magic  of  a  moonlight  view ; 
Its  colours  mellow' d,  not  impair'd,  by  time. 

True  as  the  needle,  homeward  points  his  heart, 
Through  all  the  horrors  of  the  stormy  main ; 
This,  the  last  wish  that  would  with  life  depart, 
To  see  the  smile  of  her  he  loves  again. 

When  Morn  first  faintly  draws  her  silver  line, 
Or  Eve's  grey  cloud  descends  to  drink  the  wave; 
When  sea  and  sky  in  midnight-darkness  join, 
Still,  still  he  views  the  parting  look  she  gave. 

Her  gentle  spirit,  lightly  hovering  o'er, 
Attends  his  Utt'ebark  fror\  pole  to  pole; 

265 


266  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  when  the  beating  billows  round  him  rear, 
Whispers  sweet  hope  to  soothe  his  troubled  soul. 

Carved  is  her  name  in  many  a  spicy  grove, 
In  many  a  plantain-forest,  waving  wide  ; 
Where  dusky  youths  in  painted  plumage  rove, 
And  giant  palms  o'er-arch  the  golden  tide. 

But  lo,  at  last  he  comes  with  crowded  sail ! 
Lo,  o'er  the  cliff  what  eager  figures  bend ! 
And  hark,  what  mingled  murmurs  swell  the 

gale. 
In  each  he  hears  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

— 'T  is  she,  'tis  she  herself!  she  waves  her 

hand  ! 
Soon  ia  the  anchor  cast,  the  canvass  furl'd  ; 
Soon  through  the  whitening  surge  he  springs 

to  land, 
And  clasps  the  maid  he  singled  from  the  world. 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT,  17S6. 


While  through  the  broken  pane  the  tempest 

sighs, 
And  my  step  falters  on  ti.e  faithless  floor, 
Shades  of  departed  joys  around  me  rise, 
With  many  a  face  that  smiles  on  me  no  more ; 
With  many  a  voice  that  thrills  of  transport  gave, 
Now  silent  as  the  grass  that  tufts  their  grave  ! 


TO  TWO  SISTERS.* 


Well  may  you  sit  within,  and,  fond  of  grief. 
Lock  in  each  other's  face,  and  melt  in  tears. 
Well  may  you  shun  all  counsel,  all  relief. 
Oh  she  was  great  in  mind,  though  young  in 
years ! 

Changed  is  that  lovely  countenance,  which  shed 
Light  when  she  spoke,  and  kindled  sweet  sur- 
prise, 
As  o'er  her  frame  each  warm  emotion  spread, 
Play'd  round  her  lips,  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lips  so  pure,  that  moved  but  to  persuade 
Still  to  the  last  enliven'd  and  endear'd. 
Those  eyes  at  once  her  secret  soul  convey'd, 
And  ever  beam'd  deUght  when  you  appear'd. 

Yet  has  she  fled  the  life  of  bliss  below, 
That  youthful  Hope  in  bright  perspective  drew? 
False  were  the  tints  1  false  as  the  feverish  glow 
That  o'er  her  burning  cheek  distemper  threw  ! 

And  now  in  joy  she  dwells,  in  glory  moves  ! 
(Glory  and  joy  reserv'd  for  you  to  share.) 
Far,  far  more  blest  in  blessing  those  she  loveg 
Than  they,  alas  !  unconscious  of  her  care. 

*  On  the  dealli  of  a  younger  sister. 

267 


TO  AN  OLJ  OAK. 


Immotamanet;  muUosqtie  nepotee, 

Multa  viriim  volvens  durando  saecula,  vincit.    Virg 


Round  thee,  alas,  no  shadows  move ! 
From  thee  no  sacred  murmurs  breathe  ! 
Yet  within  thee,  thyself  a  grove, 
Once  did  the  eagle  scream  above, 
And  the  wolf  howl  beneath. 

There  once  the  steel-ciad  knight  reclined. 
His  sable  plumage  tempest-toss'd  ; 
And,  as  the  death-bell  smote  the  wind, 
From  towers  long  fled  by  human  kind, 
His  brow  the  hero  cross' d  I 

Then  Culture  came,  and  days  serene  ; 
And  village-sports,  and  garlands  gay. 
Full  many  a  pathway  crnss'd  the  green  ; 
And  maids  and  shepherd-youths  were  seen 
To  celebrate  the  May. 

Father  of  many  a  forest  deep, 
Whence  many  a  navy  thunder-fraught ! 
Erst  in  thy  acorn-cells  asleep, 
Soon  destined  o'er  the  world  to  sweep; 

Opening  new  spheres  of  thought ! 
268 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  269 

Wont  in  the  night  of  woods  to  dwell, 
The  holy  Druid  saw  thoe  rise  ; 
And,  planting  there  the  guardian  spell 
Sung  forth,  the  dreadful  pomp  to  swell 
Of  human  sacrifice  ! 

Thy  singed  top  and  branches  bare 
Now  straggle  in  the  evening-sky  ; 
And  the  wan  moon  wheels  round  to  glare 
On  the  long  corse  that  shivers  there 
Of  him  who  came  to  die  ! 


FROM  EURIPEDES. 


There  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 
The  village-girls,  singing  wild  madrigals. 
Dip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear, 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.    There  first  I  saw  her 
Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes,  mild,  full  of  fire, 
'Twas  heaven  to  look  upon;   and  her  sweet 

voice 
As  tunable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 

Dear  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees  ; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 
The  small  birds  build  there;  an  J  at  summer-noon 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowerB, 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  conceal'd 
Sing  to  herself     *  *  * 


TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  LOST.* 


Tane,  quid  afTectus  far.iem  mihi  ponere,  pJciorl 

Aeris  et  linguoe  sum  filia; 

Et,  Bi  vis  aimilem  pingerej  pinge  flonom.    Auaoniut, 


Once  more,  Enchantress  of  the  soul, 
Once  more  we  hail  thy  soft  control. 
—Yet  whither,  whither  didst  thou  fly  ? 
To  what  bright  region  of  the  sky  ? 
Say,  in  what  distant  star  to  dwell  ? 
(Of  other  worlds  thou  seem'st  to  tell) 
Or  trembling,  fluttering  here  beloW, 
Resolved  and  unresolved  to  go, 
In  secret  didst  thou  still  impart 
Thy  raptures  to  the  pure  in  heart  ? 

Perhaps  to  many  a  desert  shore, 
Thee,  in  his  rage,  the  Tempest  bore  } 
Thy  broken  murmurs  swept  along, 
'Mid  Echoes  yet  untuned  by  song  ; 
Arrested  in  the  realms  of  Frost, 
Or  in  the  wilds  of  Ether  lost. 

Far  happier  thou  !  't  was  thine  to  soaf 
Careering  on  the  winged  wind. 
Thy  triumphs  who  shall  dare  explore  1 
Suns  and  their  systems  left  behind. 
No  tract  of  space,  no  distant  star, 

*In  the  winter  of  13  'S. 
270 


MISCELLANEOUS  fOEMS.  27) 

No  shock  of  elements  at  war, 
Did  thee  detain,     'I'hy  wing  of  fire 
Bore  thee  amidst  the  Chenib-choir ; 
And  there  awhile  to  thee  't  was  given 
Once  more  that  Voice*  beloved  to  join, 
Which  taught  thee  first  a  flight  divine, 
And  nursed  thy  infant  years  with  many  i 
strain  from  Heaven ! 


ON  A  TEAR. 


Oh  I  that  the  Chemist's  magic  art 
Could  crystalize  this  sacred  treasure  ! 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 
Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye  ; 
Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell— 
The  spring  of  Sensibility  ! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light 
In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine  ; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright, 
Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul  I 
Who  evsr  fly'st  to  bring  relief, 

*  Mrs  S-heridan's. 


273  MISCELLANEOUS  PO^MS. 

Wh&n  first  we  feel  the  rude  contra 
Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme, 
In  every  clime,  in  every  age  ; 
Thou  charm'st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 
In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law*  which  moulds  a  tear. 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  coarse. 


ON ASLEEP. 


Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile. 
Though  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile. 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  I- 

Ah ,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks, 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow. 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  I 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 

•  The  law  of  gravitation 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  273 

—And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  '. 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  control, 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee ! 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary ! 


THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND. 

*'  Sat,  what  remains  when  Hope  is  fled?" 
She  answer' d,  "  Endless  weeping  !" 
For  ia  the  herdsman's  eye  she  read 
Who  in  his  shroud  lay  sleeping. 

At  Embsay  rung  the  matin-bell, 
The  stag  was  roused  on  Barden-fell ; 
The  mingled  sounds  v/ere  swelling,  dying, 
And  down  the  Wharfe  a  hern  was  flying  • 
When  near  the  cabin  in  the  wood, 
In  tartan  clad  and  forest-green, 
With  hound  in  leash  and  hawk  in  hoou, 
The  Boy  of  Egremond  svas  seen. 
Blithe  was  his  song,  a  song  of  yore; 
But  where  the  rock  is  rent  in  two, 
And  the  river  rushes  through, 
^lis  voice  was  heard  no  more  ! 
'T  was  but  a  step  I  die  gulf  he  pass'd; 
But  that  step — it  was  his  last ! 
As  through  the  mist  he  wing'd  his  way 
(A  cloud  that  hovers  night  %nd  day). 


274  WISCELLA  PEOUS   POEMS. 

The  hound  hung  back,  and  back  he  drew 
The  Master  and  his  merlin  too. 
That  narrow  place  of  noise  and  strife 
Received  their  little  all  of  Life  ! 

There  now  the  matin-bell  is  rung ; 
The  "  Miserere  !"  duly  sung  ; 
And  holy  men  in  cowl  and  hood 
Are  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood. 
But  what  avail  they  ?     Ruthless  Lord, 
Thou  didst  not  shudder  when  the  sword 
Here  on  the  young  its  fury  spent, 
The  helpless  and  the  innocent. 
Sit  now  and  answer  groan  for  groan, 
The  child  before  thee  is  thy  own. 
And  she  who  wildly  wanders  there, 
The  mother  in  her  long  despair. 
Shall  oft  remind  thee,  waking,  sleeping, 
Of  those  who  by  the  Wharfe  were  weeping; 
Of  those  who  would  not  be  consoled 
When  red  with  blood  the  river  roll'cL 


A  CHARACTER. 


As   through   the   hedge-row  shade   the  violeJ 

steals. 
And  the  sweet  air  its  modest  leaf  reveals  ; 
Her  softer  charms,  but  by  their  influence  known, 
Surprise  all  heaits,  and  mould  them  to  her  own 


TC  A  FRIEND    ON  HIS   MARRIAGE. 

On  thee  blest  youth,  a  father's  hand  confers 
The  maid  thy  earliest,  fondest  wishes  knew. 
Each  soft  enchantment  of  the  soul  is  hers  ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  to  firm  attachment  due. 

As  on  she  moves  with  hesitating  grace, 
She  wins  assurance  from  his  soothing  voice  ; 
And,  with  a  look  the  pencil  could  not  trace, 
Smiles  through  her  blushes,  and  confirms  the 
choice. 

Spare  the  fine  tremours  of  her  feeling  frame  ! 
To  thee  she  turns— forgive  a  virgin's  fears  ! 
To  thee  she  turns  with  surest,  tenderest  claim. 
Weakness  that  charms,  reluctance  that  endears ' 

At  each  response  the  sacred  rite  requires. 
From  her  full  bosom  bursts  the  unbidden  sigh. 
A  strange  mysterious  awe  ihe  scene  inspires  ; 
And  on  her  lips  the  trembling  accents  die. 

O'er  her  fair  face  what  wild  emotions  play  ! 
What   lights   and  shades   in   sweet   confusioa 

blend  ! 
Soon  shall  they  fly,  glad  harbingers  of  day. 
And  settled  s-mshine  on  her  soul  descend  ! 

275 


276  MISCELLiNEOUS    roi'.Ma. 

Ah  soon,  thine  own  confest,  ecstatic  fhought ! 
That  hand  shall  strew  thy  summer-path  with 

flowers  ; 
And    those    blue    eyes,   with    mildest    lustre 

fraught, 
Gild  the  calm  current  of  domestic  hours  ! 


A  WISFI. 


Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill, 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall,  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest; 
Oft  shall  the  pngrrm  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church,  among  the  trees, 
Where  tirst  our  marriage-vows  were  given. 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


TO .♦ 

Ah  !  Utile  thought  sh>,  when,  with  v/ild  delight, 
By  many  a  torrent's  shining  track  she  flew, 
When  mountain-glens  and  caverns  full  of  night 
O'er    her    joung    mind    divine    enchantment 
threw. 

That  in  her  veins  a  secret  horror  slept, 

That  her  light  footsteps  should  be  heard  no 

more, 
That   she   should  die — nor  watch' d,  alas,  nor 

wept 
By  thee,  unconscious  of  the  pangs  she  bore. 

Yet  round  her  couch  indulgent  Fancy  drew 
The  kindred  forms  her  closing  eye  required. 
There  didst  thou  stand — there,  with  the  smile 

she  knew, 
She  moved  her  lips  to  bless  thee,  and  expired. 

And  now  to  thee  she  comes ;   still,  still  tho 

same 
As  in  the  hours  gone  unregarded  by  ! 
To  thee,   how  changed !    comes  as  she  evef 

came, 
Health  on  her  cheek,  and  pleasure  in  her  eye! 

•  On  the  death  of  her  aister. 

277 


278  mis:ellaneoi;6  po2M8. 

Nor  less,  less  oft,  as  on  that  day,  appears, 
When  lingering,  as  prophetic  of  the  truth, 
By  the  way-side  she  shod  her  parting  teara— • 
For  ever  lovely  in  the  light  of  Youth  t 


CAPTIVITY. 

Caoed  in  old  woods,  whose  reverend  echoet 

wake 
When  the  hern  screams  along  the  distant  lake, 
Her  little  heart  oft  flutters  to  be  free. 
Oft  sighs  to  turn  the  unrelenting  key. 
In  vain  !  the  nurse  that  rusted  relic  wears. 
Nor  moved  by  gold — nor  to  be  moved  by  tears ; 
And  terraced  walls  their  black  reflection  throw 
On  the  green-mantled  moat  that  sleeps  below. 


A  FAREWELL. 

Once  more,  enchanting  maid  adieu  ! 
I  must  be  gone  while  yet  I  may  ; 
Oft  shall  I  weep  to  think  of  you, 
But  here  I  will  not,  cannot  stay. 

The  sweet  expression  of  that  face. 
For  evei*  changing,  yet  the  same, 


SSISCELLANZOUS    XOEMS.  t79 

Ah  no,  I  dare  not  turn  to  trace — 
It  melts  my  soul,  it  lires  my  frame! 

Yet  give  me,  give  me,  ere  I  go, 
One  little  lock  of  those  so  blest, 
That  lend  your  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  on  your  white  neck  love  to  rest. 

— Say,  when  to  kindle  soft  delight, 
That  hand  has  chanced  with  mine  to  moet. 
How  could  its  thrilling  touch  excite 
A  sigh  so  short,  and  yet  so  sweet  ? 

O  say — but  no,  it  must  not  be. 
Adieu  !  a  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 
— Yet  still,  methinks,  you  frown  on  me, 
Or  never  could  I  fly  from  you. 


TO  THE   FRAGMENT  OF  A  STATUE 

OF  HERCULES,  COMMONLY  CAL- 

LED  THE  TORSO. 


And  dost  thou  still,  thou  mass  of  breathing 

stone, 
(Thy  giant  limbs  to  night  in  chaos  hurl'd), 
Still  sit  as  on  the  fragment  of  a  world ; 
Surviving  all,  majestic  and  alone  ? 
What  though  the  Spirits  of  the  North,  thai 

swept 


280  MISCELLANEOUS    TOEMS. 

Rome  from  the  earth,  when  in  her  pomp  she 

slept, 
Smote  thee  with  fury,  and  thy  headless  trunk 
Dsep  in  the  dust  'mid  tower  and  temple  sunk  : 
Soon  to  subdue  mankind  't  was  thine  to  rise, 
Still,  still  unquell'd  thy  glorious  energies ! 
Aspiring  minds,  with  thee  conversing,  caught 
Bright  revelations  of  the  Good  they  sought; 
By  thee  that  long-lost  spell  in  secret  given, 
To  draw   down    Gods.,   and    lift  the   soul  to 

Heaven : 


AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 


Dear  is  my  little  native  vnle, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle-bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound; 
Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave. 
For  those  -that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day. 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 


JWSCELl.ANEOTTS   POEMS.  381 

The  enn.'.onet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade, 
These  sitnpio  joys  that  never  fail, 
Shall  bind  mt  lo  my  native  vale. 


FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM. 

While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneela^ 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall, 
See  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals  ! 
O  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 
Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 


WRITTEN   IN  THE    HIGHLANDS  OF 
SCOTLAND,  SEPTEMBER  2,  1812. 


Blue  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gona 
Ben  Lomond  in  his  glory  shone, 
When,  Luss,  1  left  thee  ;  when  the  bre^se 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands, 
Thy  kirk-yard  wall  among  the  trees. 
Where,  grey  with  age,  the  dial  stands 
That  dial  so  well  known  to  me  ! 
•-Thouyh  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed. 


MISCEI  LANEOUS    POEMS. 

Beloved  Sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fairy  isles  fled  far  away  ; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 
Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 
And  songs  are  heard  at  closo  of  day  ; 
That,  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled, 
And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead: 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  Rob  Roy*  the  boatman  told ; 
His  arm,  that  fell  below  his  knee, 
His  cattle-ford  and  mountain-hold. 

Tarbat,  thy  shore  I  climb'd  at  last ; 
And,  thy  shady  region  pass'd, 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood, 
And  look'd  upon  another  flood  ;t 
Great  Ocean's  self!  ('T  is  He  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awfal  depth  of  hills); 
Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round 
Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground  ; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among, 
As  Fingal  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell ;  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky. 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew; 
The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 
And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried. 
Black  and  huge  above  the  tide  ; 
The  clitls  and  promontories  there, 
Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare ; 

♦  A  famous  Outlaw.  -f  Loch-Long. 


MISCEI.LAXEOUS  POEMS.  283 

Ea(h  beyond  each,  with  giant-feet 

Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet ; 

The  shatter'd  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 

Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rush'd  in  vain, 

Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain  : 

All  into  midnight-shadow  sweep, 

When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep ! 

Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 

The  prow  wakes  splendour  ;  and  the  oar, 

That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before, 

Flashes  in  a  sea  of  light  ! 

Glad  sign,  and  sure  !  lor  now  we  hail 

Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale; 

And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be 

That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  thee  ! 

Oh  blest  retreat,  and  sacred  too  ! 
Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
ToU'd  duly  on  the  desert  air. 
And  crosses  deck'd  thy  summits  blue. 
Oft,  like  some  loved  romantic  tale, 
Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall, 
Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men. 
Thy  beechen  grove  and  waterfall 
Thy  ferry  with  its  g'iding  sail, 
And  her — the  Lady  of  the  dlen* 


TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Child  of  the  sun  I  pursue -.Iiy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lovest  in  fields  of  light; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 
Quaff" fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening-sky, 
Expand  and  shut  wuh  silent  ecstacy  I 
—Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb,  and 

slept. 
And  such  is  man ;  sr  )n  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day  ! 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TEMPLE 

DEDICATED    TO   THE    GRACES. 


Appkoach  with    reverence.     There  are  those 

within 
Whose  dwelling  place  is  Heaven.    Daughters 

of  Jove, 
From  them  flow  all  the  decencies  of  life  ; 
Without  them  nothing  pleases,  Virtue's  self 
Admired,  not  loved ;  and  those  on  whom  they 

smile, 
Great  though  they  be,  and  wise,  and  beautiful^ 
Shme  forth  vith  double  lustre. 
284 


WRITTEN  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 
OCVOBER  10,  1S06. 


Whoe'er  thou  art,  approach,  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Mark  where  the  small  remains  of  greatness  lie. 
There  sleeps  the  dust  of  Fux,  for  ever  gone : 
How  near  the  Place  where  late  his  glory  shone ! 
And,    though  no   more   ascends  the  voice  of 

Prayer, 
Though  the  last  footsteps  cease  to  linger  there, 
Still,  like  an  awful  dream  that  comes  again, 
Alas!   at  best  as  transient  and  as  vain, 
Still  do  I  see  (while  through  the  vaults  of  night 
The  funeral-song  once  more  proclaims  the  ritej 
The  moving  Pomp  along  the  shadowy  aisle, 
That,  like  a  Darkness,  fiU'd  the  solemn  Pile ; 
The  illustrious  line,  that  in  long  order  led. 
Of  those  that  loved  Him  living,  mourn' d  Him 

dead; 
Of  those  the  Few,  that  for  their  Country  stood 
Round  Him  who  dared  be  singularly  good: 
All,  of  all  ranks,  that  claim'd  Him  for  their  ov/n; 
And  nothing  wanting — but  himself  alone  ! 

Oh  say,  of  Him  now  rests  there  but  a  name  ; 
Wont,  as  He  was,  to  breathe  ethereal  flame? 
Friend  of  the  Absent,  Guardian  of  the  Dead  ! 
Who  but  would  here  their  sacred  sorrows  shed? 
(Such  as  He  shed  on  Nelson's  closing  grave ; 
How  soon  to  claim  the  sympathy  He  gave  !) 
In  Him,  resentful  of  another's  wrong, 

Q35 


£86  MISCELLANEOUS    P0EM5, 

The  dumb  were  eloquent,  the  feeble  strong. 
Truth  from  his  lips  a  charm  celestial  drew — 
Ah,  who  so  mighty  and  so  gentle  too  ? 

What  though  with  War  the  madding  nations 
rung 
"Peace,"  when  He  spoke,  was  ever  on  his 

tongue  I 
Amidst  the  frowns  of  Power,  the  tricks  of  State, 
Fearless,  resolved,  and  negligently  great ! 
In  vain  malignant  vapours  gather' d  round; 
He  walk'd,  erect,  on  consecrated  ground. 
The  clouds,  that  rise  to  quench  the  Orb  of  day, 
Reflect  its  splendour,  and  dissolve  away  ! 
When  in  retreat  He  laid  his  thunder  by, 
For  letter' d  ease  and  calm  Philosophy, 
Blest  were  his  hours  within  the  silent  grove, 
Where  still  his  god-like  Spirit  deigns  to  rove ; 
Blest  by  the  orphan's  smile,  the  widow's  prayer, 
For  many  a  deed,  long  done  in  secret  there. 
There  shone  his  lamp  on  Homer's  hallow'd  page ; 
There,  listening,  sate  the  hero  and  the  sage ; 
And  they,  by  virtue  and  by  blood  allied, 
Whom  most  He  loved,  and  in  whose  arms  He 
died. 
Friend  of  all  human-kind  !  not  here  alone 
(The  voice  that  speaks,  was  not  to  thee  un- 
known) 
Wilt  Thou  be  missed. — O'er  every  land  and  sea, 
Long,  long  shall  England  be  revered  in  Thee ! 
And,    when  the   storm   is   hush'd — in  distant 

years — 
Foes  on  Thy  grave  shall  meet,  and  ming^le  tears 


TO . 

Go — you  may  call  it  madness,  folly; 
You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away. 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy, 
I  would  noc,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 

Oh  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I  sigh, 
You  would  not  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 


THE  ALPS  AT  DAY-BREAK. 


The  sun-beams  streak  the  azure  skies, 
And  line  with  light  the  mountain's  browi 
With  hounds  and  horns  the  hunters  rise, 
And  chase  the  roe-buck  through  the  snow 

From  rock  to  rock,  with  giant-bound, 
High  on  their  iron  poles  they  pass  ; 
Mute,  lest  the  air,  convulsed  by  soxmd. 
Rend  from  above  a  frozen  mass. 

The  goats  wind  slow  their  wonted  way 
Up  craggy  steeps  and  ridges  rude  ; 

287 


MISCELLANEOUS  POES.J. 

Mark'd  by  the  wild  wolf  for  hia  pref 
From  desert  cave  or  hanging  wood. 

And  while  the  torrent  thunders  loud, 
And  as  the  echoing  cliflTs  reply. 
The  huts  peep  o'er  the  morning  cloud 
Perch'd,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  on  higl». 


AN  INSCRIPTION. 

Shepberd,  or  Huntsman,  or  worn  Marin«rr, 
Whate'er  thou  art,  who  woulast  allay  thy  ihirst. 
Drink  and  be  glad.     This  cistern  of  white  stone, 
Arch'd,  and  o'erwrought  wi.h  many  a  sacred 

verse, 
This  iron  cup  chain'd  for  the  general  use. 
And  these  rude  seats  of  eart'.i  within  the  grove, 
Were  given  by  Fatfma,     Borne  hence  a  bride, 
'T  was  here  she  turn'd  fro.-i  lier  beloved  sire. 
To  see  his  face  no  more.     Oh  if  thou  canst, 
('Tis  not  far  off)  visit  his  t'.mb  with  flowers, 
And  with  a  drop  of  this  swejt  water  fill 
The  two  s.mall  cells  scoop' d  m  the  marble  there. 
That  birds  may  come  and  di  ink  upon  his  grave, 
Making  it  holyl* 

*  A  Turkish  superstlllon. 


THE 

PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


PART  I. 


Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  villag»» 
green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Still'd  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke. 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flock'd  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  ! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear ! 

Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  through  the 

trees, 

Whose  hollow  turret  wooes  the  whistling  breeze. 

That  casement  arch' d  with  ivy's  brownestshade, 

First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd. 

VJ  26d 


290  Rogers's 

The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-grown 

court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 
When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  reveal'd, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest : 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow' d  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call ! 
Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall  1 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 

Now  stain'd  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkly 
hung, 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweeten'd  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh   pursued  the   circhng 

jest ; 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'Twas  there  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound  ; 
And  turn'd  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  form'd  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  Fancy  flutter'd  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chain'd  each  wondering  ear; 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 


PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY.  201 

Oft  with  the  babe  we  wander'd  in  the  iv'O.xi, 
Or  view'd  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Hood  : 
Oft  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 
With  starthng  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep. 
Murder' d  by  ruffian  hands,  when  smiling  in  its 
deep. 

Ye  Household  Deities  !  whose  guardian  eye 
Mark'd  each  pure  thought,   ere  register'd  on 

high; 
Still,  still  ye  walkth^  consecrated  ground, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feeUngs  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight, 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wilder'd  sight 
And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-colour'd  chart, 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear, 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  p'easure  near  ; 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime. 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feather'd  feet  of  Time  ? 
That    massive   beam,    with    curious    carvings 

wrought, 
Whence  the  caged  linnet  soothed  my  pensivf 

thought; 


293  BooERs's 

Those  musltets,  cased  with  Tenerableruft  j 
Those  once-loved  forma,  still  breathing  through 

their  dust, 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  m^ould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  Past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove  ! 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west. 
We  watch'd  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing. 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  th*  spring ! 
How   oft  inscribed,   with    Friendship's  votiva 

rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silver'd  by  the  toxich  of  Time  ; 
Soar'd  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid. 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer- 
shade  ; 
Or  strew'd  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat. 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene. 
The  tangled  wood- walk,  and  the  tafted  green  I 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live  ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give. 
Thou   first  best   i'riend   that   Heaven   assigns 

below, 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know  ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm  ; 


PLEAftURES   OF    MEMORY.  «>1<3 

Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke  ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept,  a. id  the  poet's  song. 
What  soften' d  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  twilight 

steals ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play  ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign'd, 
Glance  on  the  darkened  mirror  of  the  mind. 

The    School's   lone   porch,  with    reverend 
mosses  gray, 
Just  tell  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant-feet  across  the  lawn  ; 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air. 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 
Some  little  friendship  form'd  andcherish'd  here  ; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gipsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed  ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  awe. 
Her  tatter 'd  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er  ; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore» 
Imps,  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlet  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  rei  el  (cd ; 


294  KOGEUS'S 

Whose  dark  eyes  flasli'd  through  lOckA  of  b[;ic'ri. 

est  shade, 
When    in    the   breeze    the  distant   watch-doj 

bay'd  : — 
And  heroes  fled  the  tSibyl's  mutter'd  calt, 
Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  oichard-v/atl. 
As  o'er  my  pain?  the  silver  piece  she  d.cM', 
And    traced   the    line    of  life   wi'.ii    r<;arching 

view, 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  v-^i'a  hopes 

and  fears, 
To  learn  the  colour  of  mv  future  yexr.  I 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  H'-.sh'd  my 

breast ; 
This  truth   once  known  —  To  ji'.ss    is  to  be 

blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  op  b-s  vay, 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray,) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  at'.enti'm  dwelt. 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  story. 
And  sigh'd  to  think  that  Intle  was  no  more. 
He  breathed  his  prayer,  "  Long  may  ^-ach  good 

ness  live !" 
'Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  '.c  give. 
Angels,  when  Mercy's  mr.nJate  Yirij''d  th^v" 

flight, 
Had  stopt  to  dweH  with  ple;-sure  ou  .Ui  Mght* 


PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  295 

But  hark!  through  those  old  firs,  with  sullen 

swell, 
The  church-clock  strikes !  ye  tender  scenes, 

farewell  ! 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  efface. 

On  yon  gray  stone,   that  fronts  the  chancel- 
door, 
\Vom  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  through  the  ring, 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  hfe  was  in  its 

spring ; 
Alas  I  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth, 
That  faintly  echo'd  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald-light  to 
shed. 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,   as  he   turn'd  the    greensward   wuh   his 

spade 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  him  play'd; 
And  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay, 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush !  while  here 
alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life  !  Instructors  of  my  youth  I 
Who  first  uuveil'd  the  hallow'd  form  of  Truth  • 


Z9G  ROOEKS't 

Whose  every  word  enlighten'd  and  endear'd; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered  ; 
In  Friendship's  silent  register  ye  hve, 
Nor  asic  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give. 

But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
"When  only  Sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined ! 

Ethereal  Power  I  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall'st  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight ; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good  ; 
Blest  Memory,   hail !    Oh  grant   the  grateful 

Muse. 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lull'd  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain, 
Our  thoughts  are  Unk'd  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise  !* 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies. 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 

♦  Namque  illic  posuit  solium,  et  sua  templa  sacravlt 
Mens  animi :  hanr,  circuni  coeunt,  densoque  feruntur 
Agmine  notitis,  simulacraque  tenuia  rerum. 


PLEASURES  OP  MEMORY.  2D1 

Brightens  or  fades  ;  yet  all,  with  magic  art, 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  Pkospero's  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell ; 
Each  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course; 
And  through  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play  ; 
Man's  little  universe  at  once  o'ercast, 
At  once  illumined  when  the  cloud  is  past. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore ; 
From  Reason's  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar. 
What  ditl'erent  spheres  to  human  bliss  assign'd  ! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  ! 
Yet  mark,  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share, 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer, 
Turns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to  seo 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy  ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees, 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the 

breeze, 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The  church-yard  yeM  s  round  which  his  fathera 
sleep ; 


293  R0aEB8*8 

All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-oleasing  train, 
And  oft  lie  loolis  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before, 
And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  woo'd  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swell'd  their  strange  expanse  ofsaih 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu, 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe. 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 
Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast. 
Long  watch' d  the  streaming  signal  from  the 

mast. 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evening-sky . 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  as  slowly  dawn'd  the  day, 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  bless' d  the  beacon's  glimmering 

height, 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portray' d 
Each  castle  cliff",  and  brown  monastic  shade  : 
All  touch'd  the  talisman's  resistless  spring. 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the 
wing! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire. 
A.a  Bummer'OlQuds  flash  forth  electric  lire. 


PLEASURES  OF   MEMORY.  299 

And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth. 
Warm  as  the  Hfe,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  home-feh  pleasure  prompts  the  Patriot's 

sigh ; 
This  makes  him  wish  to  Uve,  and  dare  to  die. 
For  this  young  Foscari,  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  I\Iuse  relate, 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 
To  sorrow's  long  sohloquies  a  prey, 
When  roason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause. 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws  ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant   na 

more, 
And  chains  and  torture  hail'd  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart ; 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale. 
Glance  through  the  gloom,  and  whisper  in  the 

gale ; 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
•Twas  ever  thus.     Young  Ammo:^,  when  h« 

sought 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  Pelides  fought. 
Sate  at  the  helm  himself.     No  meaner  hand 
Steer' d  through  the  waves ;  and  when  hestruclj 

the  land, 
Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore, 
pEUDES-like,  be  leap'd  the  first  ashora: 


300  Roa£Rs*s 

*Twa3  ever  thus.    As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom: 
60  TuLLY  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime  ; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honour'd  dust  disclosed, 
The  immortal  Sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  lon^  in  sweet  delusion  hung. 
Where  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pindar  sung ; 
Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruin'd  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ! 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul  I 

And  hence  that  calm  dehght  the  portrait  gives '. 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives  ". 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid  ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  the  shade  ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  Avidow  loves  to  weep. 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep? 
TrembHngly  still,  she  Ufts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  War  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace ; 
What  though  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Bach  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  tlxe  breast ; 


tt£kBt R2S  Of  MEMOXT.  30 J 

Stfl/.  shall  this  active  principle  preside, 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 
The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guardtsa  foreign  shore 
Condemu'd  to  cUmbhis  mountain-cliffs  no  more. 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild. 
Which  on  those  cliffs  his  infant  hours  beguiled, 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sigha. 

Ask  not  if  courts  or  camps  dissolve  the  charm. 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm ; 
Why  great  Navarre,  when  France  and  free- 
dom bled, 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed. 
When  Diocletian's  self-corrected  mind 
The  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resign' d. 
Say  why  we  trace  the  labours  of  his  spade, 
In  calm  Solona's  philosophic  shade. 
Say,  when  contentious  Charles  renounced  a 

throne. 
To  muse  with  monks  unletfer'd  and  unknown, 
What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 
What  claim' d  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu  ? 
The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 
Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppress'd. 

Undamp'd  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glow* 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows  ; 
Gbwsin  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest, 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest. 


302  »0OERS*f 

The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail  i— 
And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale, 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound, 
And  with   young   vigour  wheels   the  pasture 
round. 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenanrt  of  the  vale 
Lean'd  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale  ; 
Oft  have  his  Hps  the  grateful  tribute  breathed, 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
When  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declined. 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warr'd  the  winter-wind , 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkUng  ray 
Gleam'd  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way  ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  hstening  ear, 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near  ; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry, 
The  track  that  shunn'd  his  sad,  enquiring  eye  ; 
And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 
That  his  charm'd  hand  the  careless  rein  resign'd, 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanish' d  from  his  mind. 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  alter'd  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet? 
His  faithful  dog's  already  at  his  feet! 
Ves,  though  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door, 
Though  all  that  knew  him,  know  his  fac«  no 
more, 


rLEASrRES  OP  MEMORY.  303 

His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each, 
With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech. 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die  ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly  ? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of 

earth, 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 
These,    when    to  guard    Misfortune's   sacrad 

grave, 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 
Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points 

her  flight  ? 
Monarclis  have  gazed,  and  nations  bless'd  the 

sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  motintains 

rise, 
Ec'ipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies : — 
'Tisvain!  through  Ether's  pathless  wilds  she 

goes. 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird!  thy  truth  shall  Harlem's  walla 
attest. 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 
With  looks  that  asr.'d,  yet  dared  not  hope  re» 


304         ROQEns  S   PLEASTJUES  OP  MEMORY. 

Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour 

clung, 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
*Twa3  tliine  to  animate  her  closing  eye  ; 
Alas  !  'twas  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die, 
Crush'd  by  her  meagre  hand,  when  welcomed 

from  the  sky. 

Hark !  the  bee  Avinds  her  small  but  mellow 
horn, 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course, 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'Tisnoon, 'tis  night.  That  eye  so  finely  wrought, 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought, 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind ; 
Its  orb  80  full,  its  vision  so  confined ! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  1 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  thatcharm'd  her  as  she  flew? 
Hail  Memory,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Being's  glorious  chain. 


NOTES 

TO 

PLEASURES    OF  MEMORY. 


PART  I. 


P.  72, 1.8. 

How  oft,  when  purple  efening  tiDged  the  west- 

ViBoiL,  in  one  of  his  Eclogues,  describes  a  romantic 
attachment  as  conceived  in  such  circumstances;  and 
the  description  is  so  true  to  nature,  that  we  must 
surely  be  indebted  for  it  to  some  early  recollection. 
"You  were  little  when  I  first  saw  you.  You  were 
with  your  mother  gathering  fruit  in  our  orchard,  and 
I  was  your  puide.  I  wasjust  entering  my  thirteenth 
year,  and  just  able  to  reach  the  boughs  from  the 
ground." 

So  also  Zappi,  an  Italian  Poet  of  the  last  century. 
*'When  I  used  to  measure  myself  with  my  goat,  and 
my  goat  was  the  tallest,  even  then  I  loved  Clori." 
P.  73, 1.17. 

Up  springs,  at  every  ttep,  to  claim  a  tear. 

I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  ar  d  cried,  "The 
friends  of  my  Youth,  where  are  they  1  '—And  an  echo 
answered,  "  Where  are  they  1" — From  an  Arabic  .MS. 
20  305 


30C  NOTES    TO 

P.  76, 1.20. 
Awake  bat  one,  and  lo,  wha.t  myriadi  rite  ! 

When  a  traveller,  who  was  surveying  the  ruins  of 
Rome,  expressed  a  desire  to  possess  some  relic  of  its 
ancient  grandeur,  Poussin,  who  attended  him, 
stooped  down,  and  gathering  up  a  handful  of  earth 
shining  with  small  grains  of  porphyry,  "Take  Ihie 
home,"  said  he,  "for  your  cabinet;  and  say  boldly, 
Questa  eRoma  Anlica," 

P.  77, 1.27. 

The  church-yird  yews  round  which  his  father*  sleep. 

Everyman  like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput,  is  fastened  to 
some  spot  of  earth,  by  the  thousand  small  threads 
which  habit  and  association  are  continually  stealing 
over  him.  Of  these,  perhaps,  one  of  the  strongest  is 
here  alluded  to. 

When  the  Canadian  Indians  were  once  solicited  to 
emigrate,  "What :"  they  replied,  "shall  we  say  to 
the  bones  of  our  fathers,  Arise,  and  go  with  us  into  a 
foreign  land  V 

P.  78, 1.7. 

So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  y»t  fond  adieu. 

See  Cook's  first  voyage,  book  i.  chap.  16. 

Another  very  affecting  instance  of  local  attachment 
is  related  of  his  fellow-countryanan  Potaveri,  who 
came  to  Europe  with  M.  de  Bougainville. — See  Z<ej 
Jardiru,  chant,  ii. 

P.  78, 1. 16. 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  Ik. 

Elle  so  leve  sur  son  lict,  et  se  mot  a  contemplcr  ]a 
France  encore,  et  tant  qu'cUc  peut. —Bra-itomt. 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY.  OO" 

P.78,».:6. 

Thfj  kindred  objects  kindred  thoushls  inspire. 

To  an  a-ccidcntal  association  may  be  ascribed  some 
ofthe  noblfist  cir.)rt  of  human  genius.  The  Historian 
ofthe  Decline  and  Fall  ofthe  Roman  Empire  first  con- 
ceived his  design  among  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol;  and 
to  the  tones  ofa  Welsh  harp  are  wb  indebted  for  the 
Bard  of  Gray. 

P.  79,1.  3. 
Hence  home  felt  plraaure,  &c. 

Who  can  enough  admire  the  affectionate  attachment 
of  Plutarch,  who  thus  concludes  his  enumeration  of 
the  advantages  of  a  great  city  to  men  of  letters  ?  "  As 
to  myself,  I  live  in  a  little  town  ;  and  I  choose  to  live 
there,  lest  it  should  become  still  less."— Fif.  Deviostk. 

P.  79, 1.6.  * 

For  this  young  Foscari,  &c. 

He  was  suspected  of  murder,  and  at  Venice  suspi- 
cion was  good  evidence.  Neither  the  interest  of  the 
Doge,  bis  father,  nor  the  intrepidity  of  conscious  inno- 
cence, which  he  exhibited  in  the  dungeon  and  on  the 
rack,  could  procure  his  acquittal.  He  was  banished 
to  the  island  of  Candia  for  life. 

But  here  his  resolution  failed  him.  At  such  a  dis- 
tance from  home  he  cou'd  not  live  ;  and,  as  it  was  a 
criminal  offence  to  solicit  the  intercession  of  any 
foreign  prince,  in  a  fit  of  despair  he  addressed  a  letter 
to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  intrusted  it  to  a  wretch 
whose  perfidy,  he  knew,  would  occasion  his  being 
remanded  a  prisoner  to  Venice. 
F.  79, 1.15. 
And  bence  the  diarm  historic  scene*  impert. 

Whatever  withdraws  -js  from  the  power  of  on 


303  K^OTES    TO 

■enscB  ;  whatever  makes  th'i  past,  the  distant,  ot  t?i« 
future,  pretJominate  over  the  present,  advances  us  in 
the  dignity  ofthinkin!?  beings.  Far  from  ine  and  from 
my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  u» 
indifferent  and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which  ha» 
been  dignified  by  wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.  Thai 
man  is  little  to  be  envied,  whose  patriotism  would  not 
gain  force  upon  the  plain  of  JtfarafAon,  or  whose  piety 
would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  /ono.— 
JoliTbson. 

P.  79, 1.  21. 

And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa'i  cell. 

The  Paraclete,  founded  by  Abelard,'.n  Champagne. 
P.  79, 1. 22. 

Twas  ever  thus.    Youn?  Ammoa,  when  he  sought. 

Alexander,  when  he  crossed  the  HeUesp^ont,  was  in 
the  twenty-second  year  of  his  age;  and  with  what 
feelings  must  the  Scholar  of  Aristotle  have  approached 
the  ground  described  by  Homer  in  that  poem  which 
had  been  his  delight  from  his  childhood,  and  which 
records  the  achievements  o-f  Him  from  whom  he 
claimed  his  descent  1 

It  was  his  fancy,  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  ta 
take  the  tiller  from  MenoDtius,  and  be  himself  thtt 
steersman  during  the  passage.  It  was  his  fancy  also 
to  be  the  first  to  land,  and  to  land  full-armed.— jJr. 
nan,  i.  11. 

P.  80,1.1. 

As  now  at  Virgil's  torab. 

Vows  and  pilgrimages  are  not  peculiar  to  the  reli- 
gious enthusiast.    Siljus  Italicii."  performed  annual 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY.  305 

Mretnonies  on  the  mountain  of  Posilipo;  ani  it  waa 
there  that  Boccaccio,  quasi  da  un  dimno  estro  inspirator 
/esolved  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  Muses. 
P.  60, 1.  3. 

So  Tully  paused,  amid  ihe  WTecks  of  tinic 

When  Cicero  was  quaestor  in  Sicily,  he  discovered 
the  tomb  of  Archimedes  by  its  mathein.Uical  inscrip- 
tion.—riurc.  Qn(Est.  V.3. 

P.  60, 1. 17, 

Say  why  Ihepentrve  widow  loves  to  weep. 

The  influence  of  the  associating  principle  i-3  finely  ex- 
emplified in  the  faithful  Penelope,  when  she  sliud 
tears  over  the  bow  of  Ulysses.— O^Z.  i.\i.  55. 

P.81,1.5. 

K  chance  he  hean  the  song  so  »wec;ly  wild. 

The  celebrated  Ranz  des  Vaches  ;  cet  air  si  cneri 
des  Suisses  qu'il  fut  defendu  sous  peine  de  mort  de  la 
jouer  dans  leurs  troupes,  parce  qui  I'faisoit  fondrt 
en  larmes,  deserter  ou  mourir  ceux  qui  Tentendoient, 
tant  il  excitoiten  eux  I'ardent  desir  de  revoir  leur 
pays. — RouC'Stau. 

The  raaladie  de  pays  is  as  old  as  the  human  heart 
Juvenal's  little  cup-bearer 

Sutpirat  longo  non  vium  tempoie  mitrem 
Kt  caiulam,  d  uotos  tristis  des'iderat  hoedoi. 

And  the  Argive,  in  the  heiit  of  battle, 

Dolcci  morkm  remioiscitor  Ar{;o*. 

P.  81, 1.10. 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  h's  Sabine  lann. 

TblB  emperor,  according  *.o  Suetonius,  constaatly 


310  NOTES    TO 

passed  I!»r  summer  in  a  small  villa  tipac  Reate,  ix.ftere 
he  was  horn,  and  to  which  he:  would  iiover  add  any 
embellishment ;  ne  quid  scilicet  oculorumconsntludimde- 
jteriret. — Suet,  in  Vit.  Vesp.  cap.  ii. 

A  similar  instance  occurs  in  the  life  of  the  vene- 
rable Pertinax,as  related  by  J.  Capitolinus.  Postea- 
quam  in  I.iguriam  venit,  multis  agris  coemptis,  tabcr- 
nam  paternam,  Tminente /orroa  priore,  infinitis  asdificiis 
circundedit. — Hist.  Augrust.b^. 

And  it  is  said  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  that,  when  he 
built  his  magnificent  palace  on  the  site  of  the  old  family 
chateau  at  Richelieu,  he  sacrificed  its  symmetry  to 
preserve  the  room  in  which  he  was  bom. — Mem.  d* 
Mile,  de  Montpensier,  i.  27. 

An  attachment  of  this  nature  is  generally  the  cha- 
racteristic of  a  benevolent  mind ;  and  a  long  acquaint- 
ance with  the  world  cannot  always  extinguish  it. 

*'To  a  friend,"  says  John  duke  of  Buckingham,  "I 
will  expose  my  weakness :  I  am  oftener  missing  a 
pretty  gallery  in  the  old  house  I  pulled  down,  than 
pleased  with  a  saloon  which  I  built  in  its  stead,  though 
a  thousand  times  better  in  all  respects." — See  hia 
Letter  to  the  D.  of  Sh. 

This  is  the  language  of  the  heart;  and  will  remind 
the  reader  of  that  good-humoured  remark  in  one  of 
Pope's  letters—"  I  should  hardly  care  to  have  an  old 
post  pulled  up,  that  I  remembered  ever  since  I  was  a 
child." 

The  Author  of  Telemachus  has  illustrated  this 
subject  with  equal  fancy  and  feeling,  in  the  story  ol 
/Uibee,  Persan. 

P.81,1.11. 

Why  great  Navarre,  &c. 

That  amiable  and  accomplished  monarch,  Henry 


PLEASXJKES   OF   MEMORY.  311 

the  Fourth,  of  France,  made  an  excursion  from  hit 
camp,  during  tlie  long  sidge  of  Laon,  to  dine  at  a  house 
in  the  forest  of  Folambray  :  where  he  had  often  been 
regaled,  when  a  boy,  with  fruit,  milk,  and  new  cheese; 
and  in  ie  visiting  which  he  promised  himself  great 
pleasure. — jMem  de  Sully. 

P. 81,!.  14. 

■When  Diocletiinti  self-corrected  mind. 

Diocletian  retired  into  his  native  province,  and  there 
imused  himself  with  building,  planting,  and  garden- 
ing. His  answer  to  Maximian  is  deservedly  celebrat- 
ed. *'If,"  said  he,  "1  could  show  him  the  cabbages 
which  I  have  planted  with  my  own  hands  at  Salona, 
he  would  no  longer  solicit  me  to  return  to  a  throne." 
P.81,1.18. 

Say,  when  contenlious  Charles,'&c. 

When  the  Emperor,  Charles  the  Fifth  had  e.xecuted 
his  memorable  resolution,  and  had  set  out  for  the 
monastery  of  Juste,  he  stopt  a  few  days  at  Ghent  to 
indulge  that  tender  and  pleasant  melancholy,  which 
arises  in  the  mind  of  every  man  in  the  decline  of  life, 
on  visiting  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  the  objects  fami- 
liar to  him  in  his  early  youth. 

P.  81, 1.20. 
To  muM  with  monks,  4c. 

Monjes  solitariosdelglorioso  padre  San  Geronimo, 
lays  Sandova, 

In  a  corner  of  the  convent-garden  there  is  thisin- 
■cription.  En  esta  santa  casa  de  S.  Geronimo  de 
Juste  se  retiro  a  acabar  tu  vida  Carlos  V.  Empera- 
ioT,  icc.—Ponu 


312        KOTES  TO  VLEAStTRES  OP  KIKQRT. 
P.  82, 1.16. 

Then  did  his  horte  tie  homeward  track  descry. 

The  memory  of  the  horse  forms  the  pround-work 
of  a  pleasing  little  romance  entitled,  "Laidu  Pale- 
froi  vair."— See  Fabliavx  rfuXII.  Siede. 

Ariosto  likewise  introduces  it  rn  a  passage  full  of 
truth  and  nature.  When  Bayardo  meets  Angelica  in 
the  forest, 

.       .  Va  nuiDtneto  a  la  Donzella, 

Ch  in  JUbracca  il  Krvia  gia  di  sua  maao.— Orlando  Furioto,  i.  75. 
P.  83, 1.23. 
Sweet  bird  .  thy  truth  shall  Harlem»i  walls  attest. 

During  the  siege  of  Harlem,  when  that  city  was  re- 
duced to  the  last  extremity,  and  on  the  point  of  open- 
ing its  gates  to  a  base  and  barbarous  enemy,  a  design 
was  formed  to  relieve  it ;  and  the  intelligence  was 
conveyed  to  the  citizens  by  a  letter  which  was  tied 
under  the  wing  of  a  p\geon. —Thuanus,  v.  5. 

The  same  messenger  was  employed  at  the  siege  of 
Mutina,  as  we  are  informed  by  the  elder  Pliny.— /fist. 
Aat.  X.  37. 

P.  84, 1.8. 
Hark !  the  bee,  &c 

This  little  animal,  from  the  extreme  convexity  of 
ber  eye  cannot  lee  many  inches  before  her. 


ROGERS'S 

PLEASURES   OP  MEMORY 

part  11. 


Delle  cote  cu8tod«  e  d!spensiera.— Toms. 


ANALYSIS  OF  PART  II. 


The  Memory  has  hitherto  acted  only  in  subser- 
vience to  the  senses,  and  so  far  man  is  not  eminently 
distinguished  from  other  animals :  but,  with  respect 
to  man,  she  has  a  higher  province ;  and  is  often  busily 
employed,  when  excited  by  no  external  cause  what- 
ever. She  preserves,  for  his  use,  the  treasures  of  art 
and  science,  history  and  philosophy.  She  colours 
all  the  prospects  of  life  ;  for  we  can  only  anticipate 
the  future  by  concluding  what  is  possible  from 
what  is  past.  On  her  agency  depends  every  effusion 
of  the  Fancy,  who  with  the  boldest  effort  can  only 
compound  or  transpose,  augment  or  diminish  the  ma- 
terials which  she  has  collected. 

When  the  first  emotions  of  despair  have  subsided, 
and  sorrow  has  softened  into  melancholy,  she  amuses 
with  a  retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures,  and  inspires 
that  noble  confidence  which  results  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  acted  well.  When  sleep  has 
suspended  the  organs  of  sense  from  their  office,  she 
not  only  supplies  the  mind  with  images,  but  assists  in 
their  combination.  And  even  in  madness  itself,  when 
the  soul  is  resigned  over  to  the  tyranny  of  a  distem- 
pered imagination,  she  revives  past  perceptions,  and 

315 


«n6  ANALTW8. 

awivkens  tfeat  train  of  tliought  which  waa  formerly 
most  familiar. 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  of  the 
brighter  passages  of  life.  Events,  the  most  di8. 
tressina  in  their  immediate  consequences,  are  often 
cheiished  in  remembrance  with  a  degree  of  enthu- 
siasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical 
impulse  to  the  passions,  which  is  not  very  favourable 
to  the  indulgence  of  this  feeling.  It  is  in  a  calm  and 
weii-regulated  mind  that  the  Memory  is  most  perfect ; 
and  solitude  is  her  best  sphere  of  action.  With  this  sen- 
timf=nt  is  introduced  a  Tale  illustrative  of  herinfluence 
in  solitude,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the  subject 
having  now  been  considered,  so  far  as  it  relates  to 
man  and  the  animal  world,  the  Poem  concludes  wUh 
a  conjecture  thai  superior  beings  are  biest  xiith  a 
noli'.er  exercise  of  tkia  faculty. 


PLEASURES    OF   MEMORV. 


PART  11. 


Sweet  IMemory, wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale. 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  Time  I  turn  my  sail, 
To  view  the  fairy  haunts  of  long-lost  hours, 
Blest  with  far  greener  shades,  far  iVesher  flowers. 

Ages  and  climes  remote  to  Thee  impart 
What  charms  in  Genius,  and  refines  in  Art; 
Thee,  in  whose  hand  the  keys  of  Science  dwell, 
The  pensive  portress  of  her  holy  cell ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilling  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal-lamp. 

They  in  their  glorious  course  the  guides  oi 
Youth, 
Whose   language  breathed    the   eloquence   oi 

Truth  ; 
Whose  hfe,  beyond  perceptive  wisdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  the  pure  in  thought ; 

317 


318  ROOERS'S 

These  Still  exist,  by  Thee  to  Fame  cDnsign'd, 
Still  speak  and  act  the  models  of  mankind. 

From  thee  gay  Hope  her  airy  colouring  draws; 
And  Fancy's  flights  are  subject  to  thy  laws. 
From  thee  that  bosom-spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  Virtue,  tranquil  Virtue,  knows. 

When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening- 
ray, 

And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play  ; 

When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiling  prospect 
close, 

Still  through  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows; 

Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  night 

With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  kght. 

The  beauteous  maid,  who   bids  the  world 
adieu, 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review  ; 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  beads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear,  familiar  face  ; 
And  ere,  with  iron  tongue,  the  vesper-bell 
Bursts  through  the  cypress-walk,  the  convent- 
cell, 
Oft  wiW  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive, 
To  love  and  joy  still  tremblingly  alive  ; 
The  whisper'd  vow,  the  chaste  caress  prolong, 
Weave  the  light  dance,  and  swell  the  choral 
song; 


ILEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  219 

With  rapt  ear  drink  the  enchanting  s^jrenade, 
And,  as  it  melts  along  the  moonlight-glade, 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh, 
AnJ  bless  the  youth  that  bids  her  slumbers  fly. 

But  not  till  Time  has  calm'd  the  ruffled  breast, 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 
Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 
Is  Eleavpn's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  puisue  the  lessening  sail, 
And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  every  gale. 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  the  sum  of  sorrows  there  ; 
Mark  the  fLx'd  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare, 
The  racks  of  thought,  and  freezings  of  despair ! 
But  pause  not  then — beyond  the  western  wave. 
Go,  sec  the  captive  barter'd  as  a  slave ! 
Crush'd  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds, 
And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantly  recedes. 

Yet  here,  even  here,  with  pleasures  long  re- 
sign'd, 

Lo  !  Memory  bursts  the  twilight  of  the  mind. 

Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul. 

When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  con- 
trol; 

And  o'er  Futurity's  blank  page  diff'use 

The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 

'Tis  but  to  die,  and  then,  to  weep  no  more. 

Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shore ; 


820  ROaEU8*8 

Beneath  his  plantain's  ancient  shade  renew 
The  simple  transports  that  with  freedom  flew  ; 
Catch   the  cool  breeze    that   musky   Evening 

blows, 
And  quaff  the  palm's  rich  nectar  as  it  glows  ; 
The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse. 
And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 
With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  you-th, 
When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah !  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of 
Fate! 
Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create ' 
A  little  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  day, 
Nor  wreck'd  by  otorras,  nor  moulder'd  by  de- 
cay, 
A  world,  with  Memory's  ceaseless  sun-shiuj 

blest, 
ThvS  home  of  Happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wonders  of  her  reign, 
When  Sleep  has  lock'd  the  senses  in  her  chain. 
When  sober  Judgment  has  his  throne  resign'd. 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind  ; 
And,  as  warm  Fancy's  bright  Elysium  glows, 
From  her  each  image  springs,  each  colour  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest !  the  immortal  friend  •. 
Ofr  seen  o'er  sleeping  Innocence  to  bend, 
In  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  Silence  given, 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 


PLEASURES    OF  IllAGINATIO:?r.  192 

By  chance  combined,  have  struck  the  attentive 

soul 
With  deeper  impulse,  or  connected  long, 
Have  drawn  her  frequent  eye  ;  howe'er  distinct 
The  external  scenes,  yet  oft  the  ideas  gain 
From  that  conjunction  an  eternal  tic, 
And  sympathy  unbroken.     Let  the  mind 
Recall  one  partner  of  the  various  league, 
Immediate,  lo  I  the  firm  confederates  rise, 
And  each  his  former  station  straight  resumes : 
One  movement  governs  the  consenting  throi.g, 
And  all  at  once  with  rosy  pleasure  shine, 
Or  all  are  sadden'd  with  the  glooms  of  care. 
'Twas  thus,  if  ancient  Fame  the  truth  unfold, 
Two  faithful  needles,  from  the  informing  touch 
Of  the  same  parent-stone,  together  drew 
Its  mystic  virtue,  and  at  first  conspired 
With  fatal  impulse  quivering  to  the  Pole ; 
Then,  though  disjoin'd  by  kingdoms,   though 

the  main 
PtoU'd  its  broad  surge  betwixt,   and  difTerenl 

stars 
Beheld  their  wakefiil  motions,  yet  preservea 
The  former  friendship,  and  remember' d  still 
The  alliance  of  their  birth :  whate'er  the  line 
Which  one  possess'd,  nor  pause,  nor  quiet  knew 
The  sure  associate,  ere  with  trembling  speed 
He  found  its  path,  and  fix'd  unerring  there. 
Such  is  the  secret  union,  when  we  feel 
A  song,  a  flower,  a  name,  at  once  reatce 
13 


jl94  akexside's 

Those  long  connected  scenes  where  first  they 

moved 
The  attention:    backward  through  her  mazy 

walks 
Guiding  the  wanton  Fancy  to  her  scope, 
To  temples,  courts,  or  fields ;  mth  all  the  band 
Of  painted  forms,  of  passions  and  designs 
Attendant:  whence,  if  pleasing  in  itself. 
The  prospect  from  tjat  sweet  accession  gains 
Redoubled  influence  o'er  the  Ustening  mind. 

By  these  mysterious  ties  the  busy  power 
Of  Memory  her  ideal  train  preserves 
Entire  ;  or  when  they  would  elude  her  watch, 
Reclaims  their  fleeting  footsteps  from  the  waste 
Of  dark  oblivion ;  thus  collecting  all 
The  various  forms  of  being,  to  present, 
Before  the  curious  aim  of  mimic  Art, 
Their  largest  choice ;    hke   Spring's  unfolded 

blooms 
Exhaling  sweetness,  that  the  skilful  bee 
May  taste  at  will  ft-om  their  selected  spoils 
To  work  her  dulcet  food.    For  not  the  expanse 
Of  living  lakes  in  Summer's  noontide  calm, 
Reflects  the  bordering  shade,  and  sim-bright 

heavens. 
With  fairer  semblance ;  not  the  sculptured  gold 
More  faithful  keeps  the  graver's  lively  trace. 
Than  he,  whose  birth  the  sister  powers  of  Art 
Propitious  \^ew'd,  and  from  his  genial  star 


PLEASURES   OF  IMAGINATION.  195 

Shed  influence  to  the  seeds  of  fancy  kind , 
Than  his  attemper'd  bosom  must  preserve 
The  seal  of  Nature.     There  alone  unchanged, 
Ker  form  remains.     The  balmy  walks  of  Ma.y 
There  breathe  perennial  sweets ;  the  trembhng 

chord 
Resounds  for  ever  in  the  abstracted  ear, 
Melodious :  and  the  virgin's  radiant  eye, 
Superior  to  disease,  to  grief,  and  time. 
Shines  with  unbating  lustre.     Thus  at  length 
Endow' d  with  all  that  Nature  can  bestow, 
The  child  of  Fancy  oft  in  silence  bends 
O'er  these  mixt  treasures  of  his  pregnant  breast. 
With  conscious  pride.     From  thejii  he  oft  re- 
solves 
To  frame  he  knows  not  what  excelling  things ; 
And  win  he  knows  not  what  sublime  reward 
Of  praise  and  wonder.     By  degrees,  the  mind 
Feels  her    young  nerves  dilate :    the    plastic 

powers 
Labour  for  action :  blind  emotions  heave 
His  bosom,  and  vsith  loveliest  frenzy  caught. 
From  eanh  to  heaven  he  rolls  his  daring  eye» 
From  heaven  to  earth.    Anon  ten   thousand 

shapes, 
Like  spectres  trooping  to  the  wizard's  call, 
FHt  swift  before  him.     From   the  womb   of 

Earth, 
From  Ocean's  bed,  they   come;    the  eternal 
Heavens 


196  AKENSIDE*J 

Disclose  their  splendours,  and  the  dark  Ahf89 
Pours  out  her  births  unknown.   With  fixed  gaz» 
He  marks  the  rising  phantoms.   Now  compares 
Their  different  forma ;  now  blei.ds  them,  novr 

divides, 
Enlarges,  and  extenuates  by  turns ; 
Opposes,  ranges  in  fantastic  bands. 
And  infinitely  varies.     Hither  now, 
Now  thither  fluctuates  his  inconstant  aim. 
With  endless  choice  perplex'd.     At  length  h« 

plan 
Begins  to  open.    Lucid  order  dawns ; 
And  as  from  Chaos  old  the  jarring  seeds 
Of  Nature  at  the  voice  divine  repair'd 
Each  to  its*  place,  till  rosy  Earth  unveil'd 
Her  fragrant  bosom,  and  the  joyful  Sun 
Sprung  up  the  blue  serene  ;  by  swift  degrees 
Thus  disentangled,  his  entire  design 
Emerges.     Colours  mingle,  features  join ; 
And  lines  converge :  the  fainter  parts  retire  j 
The  fairer  eminent  in  light  advance  ; 
And  every  image  on  its  neighbour  smiles. 
Avi'hile  he  stands,  and  with  a  father's  joy 
Contemplates.     Then  with  Promethean  art. 
Into  its  proper  vehicle  he  breathes 
The  fair  conception ;  which,  embodied  thus, 
And  permanent,  becomes  to  eyes  or  ears 
An  object  ascertain' d ;  while  thus  inform' d, 
The  various  organs  f>f  his  mimic  skill, 
The  consonance  of  sounds,  the  featured  rock. 


PLEASURES   OF   IMi  aiXATIOX.  197 

The  shadowy  picture  and  impassion'd  verse, 

Beyond  their  proper  powers  attract  the  soul 

By  that  expressive  semblance,  while  in  sight 

Of  Nature's  great  original  we  scan 

The  lively  child  of  Art ;  while  line  by  line, 

And  feature  after  feature,  we  refer 

To  that  sublime  exemplar  whence  it  stole 

Those  animating  charms.     Thus  beauty's  palm 

BetwLxt  them  wavering  hangs  :  applauding  love 

Doubts   where    to   choose;    and    mortal    man 

aspires 
To  tempt  creative  praise.     As  when  a  cloud 
Of  gathering  hail,  with  Umpid  crusts  of  ice 
Inclosed  and  obvious  to  the  beaming  Sun, 
Collects    his    large    effulgence ;     straight    the 

heavens 
With  equal  flames  present  on  either  hand 
The  radiant  visage  :  Persia  stands  at  gaze, 
Appall'd;  and  on  the  brink  of  Ganges  doubts 
The  snowy-vested  seer,  in  Mithra's  name. 
To  wliich  the  fragrance  of  the  south  shall  burn, 
To  which  his  warbled  orisons  ascend. 

Such  various  bliss  the  well-tuned  heart  enjoys. 
Favour' d  of  Heaven  !  while,  plunged  in  sordid 

cares, 
The  unfeehng  vulgar  mocks  the  boon  divine : 
And  harsh  Austerity,  from  whose  rebuke 
Young  Love  and  smiling  Wonder  shrink  away 
Abash'd,  a  \d  chill  of  heart,  with  sager  frowns 


198  IKENSIDE'S 

Condemns  the  fair  enchantment.    On  my  strain 
Perhaps  even  now,  some  cold  fastidious  judge 
Casts  a  disdainful  eye  ;  and  calls  my  toil, 
And  calls  the  love  and  beauty  which  I  sing, 
The  dream  of  folly.     Thou,  grave  censor  I  say 
Is  Beauty  then  a  dream,  because  the  glooms 
Of  dullness  hang  too  heavy  on  thy  sense, 
To  let  her  shine  upon  thee  ?     So  the  man 
Whose  eye  ne'er  open'd  on  the  light  of  Heaven, 
Might  smile  with  scorn  while  rapcured  vision 

tells 
Of  the  gay-colour'd  radiance  flushing  briglit 
O'er  all  creation.     From  the  wise  be  far 
Such  gross  unhallow'd  pride ;    nor  needs  my 

song 
Descend  so  low  ;  but  rather  now  uniold. 
If  human  thought  could  reach,  or  words  unfold, 
By  what  mysterious  fabric  of  the  mind, 
The  deep-felt  joys  and  harmony  of  sound 
Result  from  airy  motion;  and  from  shape 
The  lovely  phantoms  of  subhme  and  fair. 
By  what  fine  ties  hath  God  connected  things 
When  present  in  the  mind,   which  in  them 

selves 
Have  no  connexion  ?     Sure  the  rising  Sun 
O'er  the  cerulean  convex  of  the  sea. 
With  equal  brightness  and  with  equal  warrath 
Alight  roll  his  fiery  orb  ;  nor  yet  the  soul 
Thus  feel  her  frame  expanded,  and  her  powers 
Exulting  m  the  splendour  she  beholds  ; 


PLEASljilES    OF   IMABINATIO^I.  199 

Like  a  young  conqueror  moving  through  tho 

pomp 
Of  some  triumphal  day.     When  join' J  at  eve, 
Soft  murmuring  streams  and  gales  of  gentlest 

breath 
Melodious  Philomela's  wakeful  strain 
Attemper,  could  not  man's  discerning  ear 
Through  all  its  tones  the  sympathy  pursue ; 
Nor  yet  this  breath  div'ine  of  nameless  joy 
Steal  through  his  vsins,  and  fan  the  awaken'd 

heart, 
Mild  as  the  breeze,  yet  rapturous  as  the  song? 

But  were  not  Nature  still  endow'd  at  large 
With  all  which  hfe  requires,  though  unadorn'd 
With  such  enchantment :   wherelbre  then  her 

form 
So  exquisitely  fair  ?  her  breath  perfumed 
With  such  ethereal  sweetness  ?  whence  her  voice 
Inform' d  at  will  to  raise  or  to  repress 
The  impassion'd  soul?   and  whence  the  robea 

of  light 
Which  thus  invest  her  %^'ith  more  lovely  pomp 
Than  fancy  can  describe  ?     Whence  but  from 

thee. 
0  source  divine  of  ever-flowing  love, 
And  thy  unmeasured  goodness  ?     Not  content 
With  every  food  of  life  to  nourish  man, 
By  kind  illusions  of  the  wondering  sense 
Thou  mak  3st  all  nature  beauty  to  his  eve. 


200  akexside's 

Or  music  to  his  ear :  well-pleased  he  scans 
The  goodly  prospect ;  and  with  inward  smileg 
Treads  the  gay  verdure  of  the  painted  plain ; 
Beholds  the  azure  canopy  of  Heaven, 
And  living  lamps  that  over-arch  his  head 
With  more  than  regal  splendour  ;  bends  his  ears 
To  the  full  choir  of  water,  air,  and  earth  ; 
Nor  heeds  the  pleasing  error  of  his  thought, 
Nor  doubts  the  painted  green  or  azure  arch, 
Nor  questions  more  the  music's  mingUng  sounda 
Than  space,  or  motion,  or  eternal  time  ; 
So  sweet  he  feels  their  influence  to  attract 
The  fixed  soul ;  to  brighten  the  dull  glooms 
Of  care,  and  make  the  destined  road  of  life 
Delightful  to  his  feet.     So  fables  tell. 
The  adventurous  hero,  bound  on  hard  exploits, 
Beholds  with  glad  surprise,  by  secret  spells 
Of  some  kind  sage,  the  patron  of  his  toils, 
A  visionary  paradise  disclosed 
Amid   the    dubious  wild:    with   streams,   and 

shades. 
And  airy  songs,  the  enchanted  landscape  smiles, 
Cheers  his  long  labours,  and  renews  his  frame. 

What  then  is  taste,  but  these  internal  powers 
Active,  and  strong,  and  feelingly  alive 
To  each  fine  impulse  ?  a  discerning  sense 
Of  decent  and  sublime,  with  quick  disgust 
From  thing?  deform'd,  or  disarranged,  or  gross 
In  species '/    This,  nor  geins,  nor  store"  of  gold. 


TLEASURES   OF   IMAGINATION.  5»1 

Nor  purple  state,  nor  culture  can  bestow ; 

But  God  alone  when  first  his  active  hand 

Imprints  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul. 

He,  mighty  Parent !  wise  and  just  in  all, 

Free  as  the  vital  breeze  or  light  of  heaven, 

Reveals  the  charms  of  Nature.     Ask  the  swain 

Who  journeys  homeward  from  a  summer  day's 

Long  labour,  why,  forgetful  of  his  toils 

And  due  repose,  he  loiters  to  behold 

The  sunshine  gleaming  as  through  amber  cloudy, 

O'er  all  the  western  sky  ;  full  soon,  I  ween, 

His  rude  expression  and  untutor'd  airs. 

Beyond  the  power  of  language,  will  unfold 

The  form  of  beauty  smiling  at  his  heart, 

How  lovely  !   how  commanding  !     But  though 

Heaven 
In  every  breast  hath  sown  these  early  seeds 
Of  love  and  admiration,  yet  in  vain, 
Without  fair  Culture's  kind  parental  aid, 
Without  enlivening  suns,  and  genial  showers, 
And  shelter  from  the  blast,  in  vain  we  hope 
The  tender  plant  should  rear  its  blooming  heai^, 
Or  yield  the  harvest  promised  in  its  spring. 
Nor  yet  will  every  soil  with  equal  stores 
Repay  the  tiller's  labour  ;  or  attend 
His  will,  obseq-uious,  whether  to  produce 
The  olive  or  the  laurel.     Different  minds 
Incline  to  different  objects :  one  pursues 
The  vast  alone,  the  wonderful,  the  wild  • 
Another  sighs  for  harmony  and  gra  ie, 


902  AKE>rSIBE*S 

And  gentlest  beaut/.  Hence  when  lightning  nrca 
The  arch  of  Heaven,  and  thunders  rock  the 

ground, 
When  furious  whirlwinds  rend  the  howling  air 
And  Ocean,  groaning  from  his  lowest  bed. 
Heaves  his  tempestuous  billo%vs  to  the  sky  ; 
Amid  the  mighty  uproar,  while  below 
The  nations  tremble,  Shakspeare  looks  abroad 
From  some  high  cliff,  superior,  and  enjoys 
The  elemental  war.    But  Waller  longs, 
All  on  the  margin  of  some  flowery  stream, 
To  spread  his  careless  limbs  amid  the  cool 
Of  plantain  shades,  and  to  the  listening  deer 
The  tale  of  sUghted  vows  and  love's  disdain 
Resound  soft-warbUng  all  the  Hvelong  day : 
Consenting  Zephyr  sighs ;  the  weeping  rill 
Joins  in  his  plaint,  melodious ;  mute  the  groves , 
And  hill  and  dale  %vith  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
Such  and  so  various  are  the  tastes  of  men. 

Oh !  blest  of  Heaven,  whom  not  the  languid 

songs 
Of  Luxury,  the  syren !  not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  Wealth,  nor  aU  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  Homer,  can  i^educe  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which  from  the 

store 
Of  Nature  fair  Imagination  culls 
To  charm  the  enlireu'd  soul !     What  though 

not  all 


FLEASUKES    Oy   niARIXA.TIOIT.  203 

Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  heights 

Of  envied  life  ;  though  only  few  possess 

Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state ; 

Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 

With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state. 

Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 

Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp, 

The  rural  honours  his.     Whate'er  adorns 

The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch. 

The    breathing    marbles    and    the    sculptured 

gold, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.    For  him,  the  springf 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds:  for  him,  the  hand 
Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With    blooming    gold,    and    blushes    like   the 

morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings, 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  Sun's  effulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure,  unreproved.     Nor  thence  par- 
takes 
Fresh  pleasure  only  :  for  the  attentive  mind, 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers. 
Becomes  herself  harmonious  :  wont  so  oft 


204  aKE-TSibe's 

In  outward  things  to  meditate  tbe  charm 

Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 

To  fmd  a  kindred  order,  to  exert 

Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspired  delight :  her  temper' d  powcfs 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 

On  Nature's  form,  where,  negligent  of  all 

These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 

Of  that  eternal  majeaty  that  weigh'd 

The  world's  foundations,  if  to  these  the  mind 

Exalts  her  daring  eye  ;  then  mightier  far 

Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler.     Would  tho 

torms 
Of  servile  custom  cramp  her  generous  powers  f 
Would  sordid  poUcies,  the  barbarous  growth 
Of  ignorance  and  r<'^)ine,  bow  her  down 
To  tame  pursuits,  tJ  indolence  and  fear  ? 
Lo !  she  appeals  to  Nature,  to  the  winds 
And  rolling  waves,  the  Sun's  unwearied  course 
The  elements  and  seasons :  all  declare 
For  what  the  eternal  Maker  has  ordain' d 
The  powers  of  man :  we  feel  within  ourselves 
flis  energy  divine  :  he  tells  the  heart. 
He  meant,  he  made  us  to  behold  and  love 
What  he  beholds  and  loves,  the  general  orb 
Of  Ufe  and  being;  to  be  great  hke  him. 
Beneficent  and  active.    Tluis  the  men 


PLEASITRES   OF  LMAftlXATlO:^,  20i 

Whom  Nature's  works  can  charm,  with  God 

himself 
Hold  converse  ;  grow  familiar,  day  by  day 
With  liis  concrptions,  act  upon  his  plan  , 
And  form  to  bs.  che  relish  ^f  fhe;''  souls. 


NOTES 

so 

PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


PART  n. 

p.  98,  1.  1. 

These  sUlI  exist,  ke 

There  Is  a  future  Existence  even  in  this  world,  an 
Existencij  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  those  who  shall 
live  after  us.  It  is  in  reserve  for  every  man,  how- 
ever obscure  ;  and  his  portion,  if  he  be  diligent,  must 
be  equal  to  his  desires.  For  in  whose  remembrance 
can  we  wish  to  hold  a  place,  but  such  as  know,  and 
are  known  by  usi  These  are  within  the  sphere  of 
our  influence,  and  among  these  and  their  descendants 
we  may  live  for  evermore. 

It  is  a  state  of  rewards  and  punishments  ;  and,  like 
that  revealed  to  us  in  the  Gospel,  has  the  happiest 
influence  on  our  lives.  The  latter  excites  us  to  gain 
the  favour  of  God,  the  former  to  gain  the  love  and 
esteem  of  wise  and  good  men  ;  and  both  lead  to  the 
•ame  end ;  for,  in  framing  our  conceptions  of  the 
Deity,  we  only  ascribe  to  Him  exalted  degrees  of 
Wisdom  and  Goodness. 

22  337 


^^S  WOTES  TO 

P.  102,  1.  3. 
Tet  (till  bow  iweet  Ibe  toothio^  of  bis  art ! 
The  astronomer  chalking  his  figures  on  the  w&Rf 
In  Hogarth's  view  of  Bedlam,  is  an  admirable  exem- 
plification  of  this   idea,— See  the  Rake'g  Progress^ 
plate  8. 

P.  102,  1.  24. 

7<in)s  bot  to  start,  and  giza  bat  to  ligb ! 

The  following  stanzas  are  said  to  have  been  written 

on  a  blank  leaf  of  this  Poem.   They  present  so  aifect- 

'ng  a  reverse  of  the  picture,  that  I  cannot  resisi  tlit 

opportunity  of  introducing  them  here. 

Pleasure*  of  Memory !— oh  !  supremely  blert, 

And  justly  proud  beyond  a  Poe*.'!  praise  ; 
If  the  pure  confines  of  thy  tranquil  breast 
Contain,  indeed,  the  subject  of  thy  lays  ! 
By  me  how  envied  1— for  to  me, 
The  herald  still  of  misery, 
Memory  makes  her  influence  known 
By  ii?hs,  and  tears,  and  grief  alone  : 
I  freet  her  as  the  fiend,  to  whom  belong 
The  vultore>a  ravening  beak,  the  raven's  fanera]  soag. 
She  tells  of  time  mispent,  of  comfort  lost, 

Of  fair  occasions  gone  for  ever  by  ; 
Of  hopes  too  fondly  nursed,  too  rudely  crossed. 
Of  many  a  cause  to  wish  yet  fear  to  die ; 
For  what,  except  the  instinctive  fear 
I,«t  she  survive,  detains  me  here, 
■When  "  all  ttt  life  of  life"  is  fled>- 
What,  bat  the  deep  inherent  dread, 
Lest  she  beyond  the  grave  resume  her  reign. 
And  realize  the  bell  that  priests  and  beMames  feign  f 

P  104,  1.  14. 
Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild-wood  vales  pursued. 

On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby, 
tbere  stands  a  small  pillar  with  this  inscription: 


TLEASURES   OF  S/EMOKT,  339 

"This  pillar  wa3  erected  in  the  year  1658,  by  Ann 
Countess  Dowager  of  Peinbr(  ke,  &.c.  for  a  memorial 
of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with  her  good  and 
pious  mother,  Margaret  Countess  Dowager  of  Cum- 
berland, on  the  2d  of  April,  161C ;  in  memory  whereof 
■he  hath  left  an  annuity  of  4/.  to  be  distributed  to  the 
poor  of  the  parish  of  Brougham,  every  2d  day  of 
April  for  ever,  upon  the  stone  table  placed  hard  by. 
Laus  Deol" 

The  Eden  is  the  principal  river  of  Cumberland,  and 
ijses  in  the  wildest  part  of  Westmoreland. 

P.  104,  1.  27. 
O'er  his  dead  son  Ihe  gallant  Orraond  ligh'd. 
**1  would  not  exchange  ray  dead  son"  said  he," fw 
Bny  living  son  in  Christendom." — Unme. 

The  same  sentiment  Is  inscribed  on  an  urn  at  the 
Leasowes.  "lieu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reiiqui* 
Tersari,  quam  tui  meminisse  1" 

p.  110,  1.  19. 
DowTj  by  St.  flerbert'i  eousecraled  jroTe  ; 
A  small  island  covered  with  trees,  among  whiefe 
were  formerly  the  ruins  of  a  religious  house. 

P.  Ill,  I.  9. 

When  1» !  »  ludden  blast  the  vessel  blew. 

In  a  mountain-iake  the  agitations  are  often  violent 
and  momentary.  The  winds  blow  in  gusts  and 
eddies  ;  and  the  water  no  sooner  swells,  thao  it  sub- 
sides.— See  Bourn's  Hut.  of  IVestmorelaiui. 

P.  112, 1.  17. 
To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  notler  ifhere ; 

The  several  degrees  of  ansel*  may  probably  hww 


340        irOTJBS  TO  PLEASURES  OP  MEMORT. 

larger  views,  and  some  of  them  be  endowed  with  ca- 
Jiacltiefl  able  to  retain  totether,  and  conctantly  «el 
before  them,  as  in  one  picture,  all  their  pastkaow- 
Wid^e  at  once.—Ltc&e. 


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